


Hope Runs Dry

by Inactive_Account



Series: Shouta Keith [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Child-on-child sexual abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Slavery, Underage Rape/Non-con, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-04-20 04:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inactive_Account/pseuds/Inactive_Account
Summary: 'I hate you'.Lotor would always regret those last words. He lay awake thinking back to the day he was taken, where he saw his parents for the last time, and they would never know the truth . . . he loved them. There was no way he would run away, but how could they possibly know that? How could he tell them? The basement left little chances for escape.He was nothing more than a slave to Sendak. He was a toy to be used.Lotor swore that he would escape. He would be free.





	1. Chapter 1

_‘Son, do you enjoy it here?’_

_Zarkon crouched down. He pushed back a stray lock of hair, as Lotor smiled and knocked back his hand to attend to himself, and – with a loud laugh and muttered ‘I can do it myself’ – he watched as Lotor pulled his long hair into a ponytail. The wind no longer caught at the locks and blinded him with wildly flung hair, but it aged him past his seven years and Zarkon blinked away tears to feel his son growing ever out of his reach. He was still a boy to him._

_The porch paint pealed on the main beams, while every step brought a creak from the planks, and Lotor – as he jumped from foot-to-foot – constantly pulled at his white socks that fell down over his ankles. Zarkon sighed and hooked them to the garters, before he tucked the messy T-shirt back into the plain shorts, and lightly took Lotor’s hands with a wide smile, as he cast his eyes over the front yard with the old picket fence. A few panels were missing, while the gate always creaked and slammed against the old frame._

_A few cars drove down the street. Zarkon would not miss the loud honks of horns, just as he would not miss the crowed houses or screaming kids running about the streets, and finally the civil war that followed the intergalactic war was over. He pulled Lotor close against him, while he hugged him tight enough that Lotor coughed and spluttered and pushed away with a frown. Zarkon laughed and rustled his hair, as he said in a warm voice:_

_‘We thought we may return to Daibazaal.’_

_‘Why?’ Lotor asked. ‘I like it here.’_

_‘Our people wish to reinstate me as a figurehead,’ confessed Zarkon. ‘They wish to create a constitutional monarchy; I know these words mean little to you now, and we could reside here for some years until such a state is achieved, but it would mean eventually returning home to our planet. You would be happier there, I promise you.’_

_The purple skin of Lotor’s face paled. He stepped back and stumbled on the edge of the porch, caught only by Zarkon’s quick reflexes, and yet that lower lip still trembled and his breath hitched with shallow breaths, as he wiped at his nose with his forearm. It was clear he was upset; Zarkon lowered his head to hide his concern, as he bit into his lips and screwed shut his eyes until spots appeared before his vision. Lotor yanked away from him and jumped down onto the yellowing yawn, where he kicked at the dirt with his boot._

_‘No,’ said Lotor._

_Zarkon sighed. He struggled to sit awkwardly at the edge of the porch, while he planted his feet on the ground, and – resting his arms on his knees – he leaned forward and smiled until lines deepened at the corners of his eyes. Zarkon swallowed back the bile in his throat, as his heart raced and eyes watered. He looked up to the sky for a brief moment, where the sub burned into his retinas and hid the stars from sight. He choked out a whispered:_

_‘Lotor, you must be grown up about this.’_

_‘I said no,’ snapped Lotor. ‘You can’t make me leave! I like it here, I have my friends and I have my school and – and – and I like my playground and my – my – my -!’ Tears pricked at his eyes until they blurred. ‘You can’t make me leave, you can’t!’_

_‘This is not your home, Lotor. We cannot stay here forever.’_

_‘I – I hate you. I hate you! I’m not going!’_

_Lotor pushed him. It was hard enough to leave a red mark underneath his shirt, while he raised a trembling hard to his shoulder, and Lotor – with heaved and choked sobs – ran to the far end of the garden and dropped down beside the swinging gate. The gate swung just a few inches from him, as he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs with audible sobs of frustration. Zarkon felt his heart break._

_He slowly stood up, knowing that Lotor waited for his mother to return. Zarkon ran a hand over his face and headed back inside the house, while he left the front door open and dragged his feet into the lounge, where – with a staggered sigh – he threw himself onto the armchair closest to the far wall. A few minutes passed by and soon another few . . . another few . . . he checked his watch, with a furrowed brow, before Honerva darted inside with arms filled with paper bags. He could see the building materials poking over the rim._

_There was the usual inane conversation. He cherished those moments more than anything, where she would laugh about her work in the laboratory or share with him plans for more DIY projects, and she came into the lounge to drop her bags onto the coffee table. Zarkon kept his eyes fixated on the door, as he waited for their son, while Honerva sang low tunes from their home-planet with a beautiful smile. Honerva asked in an absent voice:_

_‘Where is Lotor, my love?_

_A cold sweat broke over Zarkon. He jumped upright, as a terrible sensation of bugs crawling over his skin swept over him, and – swaying where he stood – he struggled to catch his breath and looked to the lounge windows. Lotor was not by the gate._ He was not by the gate! _Zarkon brought his hands to his mouth and clasped them tight, as he reassured himself that the porch blocked off a large portion of the yard from sight, while he could still hear children playing and laughing with a ball on the main road. He grabbed Honerva by the shoulders._

_‘Is he not outside?’ Zarkon asked. ‘He should be in the garden.’_

_‘I checked outside,’ said Honerva._

_‘Go check the rest of the house. I’ll check outside again.’_

_Honerva reacted fast. He was only at the door by the time she ran upstairs, and – as he listened to her cries of ‘Lotor’ – he ran aimlessly into the yard . . . he stood still, centre of the dying grass . . . the world ran quiet . . . time stopped. The children playing in the road stopped. They stared at him. A car pulled onto the pavement, as someone called out to him with a questioning voice. Lotor was nowhere to be seen. Tears streamed down Zarkon’s face, as his throat burned and a lump formed. His hands trembled by his sides._

_‘Lotor!’ Zarkon screamed. ‘_ Lotor _!’_

_It was too late. He was gone._

_* * *_

The basement was large.

Lotor sniffed and rubbed at his knees. Sendak pushed him down the last few steps, so the pale skin bruised as soon as he struck the tiles, and he sat cross-legged and rubbed at the darkening knees with tears in his eyes, while he fought back the instinct to call out for his mother. The basement was large enough that he could fit the entire upper floor of his house inside the four walls, but the upper windows were covered with sheets of metal.

It meant the only light came from a gap underneath the door; the shaft of light slipped out between the inch gap that separated wood from tile, but soon Sendak turned on the overheard lights that were some kind of UV that mimicked the sunlight. Lotor blinked and rubbed at his eyes. A huge TV stood on the wall furthest away from the stairs, with video consoles lined on fancy shelves around the outside, and a stack of famous games sat just beneath, alongside various books and board-games and jigsaw puzzles. There was no computer.

A king-sized bed sat by the nearest wall, opposite the television. It bore black sheets that looked more expensive than his entire wardrobe, with bedside tables on either side and strange looking stick toys on their surface, and on the wall between he spotted a door that led into an _en suite_. It was difficult to see inside at such an angle, but he could make out low-lighting and a large hot-tub. The basement would have made a nice guest room, or even a bedroom, but Lotor could only crane his head backward to look back up the stairs.

Sendak stood behind him with a smirk. He reached down and lifted Lotor up by his armpits, before he tossed him onto the bed and watched as he rolled over, until Lotor huffed and sat upright and glared to Sendak with a childish pout. No words were exchanged, but Sendak tossed him an apple from his pocket. Lotor caught it and raised an eyebrow. He tended to dislike fruit, but something told him he would get nothing else. Sendak said in a cold voice:

“Zarkon never wanted you, boy.”

A cold anger swept over Lotor. He threw the apple hard at Sendak, but he merely dodged and the apple struck hard on the wall and splattered into hundreds of pieces. Lotor watched them trail down onto the floor, even as his lip trembled and he thought to their last conversation, but – even as Zarkon threatened to take him away – he remembered a man who hugged him and patted his head and smiled on sight of him. A tear ran down his cheek.

“You’re lying,” spat Lotor. “My daddy loves me!”

Zarkon laughed and walked over to the bed. He sat carefully on the edge, which dipped with the pressure and reminded Lotor that he was alone with a madman, and – patting a spot beside him – Lotor curled his lip and awkwardly slid further away, until he was so close to the opposite edge that he lost balance and had to swing his arms around. Lotor desperately grabbed at the sheets with a gasp of breath, before he squirmed a little away from the edge and looked up to Sendak, who rolled his eyes and asked:

“If he loves you, why are you here?”

The question cut deep into Lotor, as his eyes widened and his lips parted. A quiet gasp escaped his mouth, until he realised this was one of the _bad men_ his father warned him about, and so he pressed his lips into a tight line and folded his arms. He glared hard at Sendak and thought very hard about what he would say next, even as his heart raced in his chest and pounded loudly in his ears. Lotor cocked his head to the side with a frown.

“You took me,” mumbled Lotor.

“Yes, but he left you outside . . . all alone.”

“He made me sad, so I was waiting for my mommy.” Lotor sniffed and glared at Sendak. “You snatched me from our yard! Daddy didn’t make you do that. You were just a bad man and did a bad thing, but they will be looking for me. I know my mummy will never stop looking for me! One day I’ll be home and happy, and you’ll be sad and in jail.”

“Oh, sweet child,” chirped Sendak. “Your daddy paid me to take you. He wants to go to a far away planet and he didn’t want to take around a disgusting half-breed with him, and now your mummy will be sad because you’re gone . . . it’s _your_ fault, boy. Your mommy will be sad because you’re gone, but you’re gone because you are not a worthy Galra, and if you didn’t keep disappointing your daddy -? Well, maybe he would have kept you.”

“I bet your mummy is disappointed in you. You tell lies!” Lotor pouted and rolled his eyes. “If it was bad to be half-Galra, my mummy would have given me away when I was born, but instead they kept me and were kind to me and loved me. No one loves _you_.”

“You will love me. You will love me as I’m all you have.”

A cold chill ran through his spine. Lotor cast his eyes around the basement, where there were so many luxuries and yet no personal possessions, and he somehow knew . . . even despite the money that must have been spent on all the items . . . he would never see his friends or family again. The tears that built in his eyes blurred his vision and ran down hot over his cheeks, until he tasted salt on his lips and bile rose in the back of his throat, and he could only look over Sendak’s shoulder and focus on the still open door. Lotor shouted out:

“I’ll escape and I’ll get the police!”

Sendak laughed and walked away. He stopped at a light-switch at the base of the staircase, where he placed a callused hand over the cold metal and looked Lotor over, and – as he licked at his lips – Lotor shivered and curled in on himself, as a terrible fear swept over his flesh and a severe dread took over his mind. Sendak reached down to his groin and grabbed it in a strange manner, until he let loose a long groan and murmured:

“I think I will take away your clothes tomorrow.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

A further laugh was his only response, as Sendak ground his hand against his groin. Lotor noticed that his pee-pee was standing out and tented his trousers, enough that it reminded him of an ‘erection’ during the talks about how babies were made, but he also knew that he was just a child and Sendak wouldn’t want another child. He furrowed his brow and pulled the sheets up to his chin, as if he could further clothe himself and hide more of his form, and he hoped it would be enough to keep that cold gaze from consuming his flesh.

“Go to sleep, child,” spat Sendak.

The lights went out.

* * *

Lotor wept against the bed.

The basement door still swung on its hinges, while food lay scattered all over the stairs and an upturned try lay at the base, and broken glass lay everywhere on the floor and even embedded into parts of the skirting board. Sendak bore a heavy cut. It was deep across his eyebrow, as blood started to dry and no longer seeped into his yellow eye, and his lips were pulled into a cold snarl, as he pulled at the chain now attached to a large pole.

Sendak referred to it as a ‘stripper pole’; it ran from floor to ceiling, which took a long time to properly install, and its shiny surface would reflect the images of the television set, where the news continued to blare from its usual station as if nothing were wrong. The remains of dinner would be later swept away, while the lock on the door would be strengthened and replaced, and Lotor wondered whether he could still make it past Sendak, perhaps fast enough to run out of the front door, but his injuries prevented such a pipe-dream.

It was painful to move. The whip and cane by the bedside table were bloody and broken, while his back wept so much blood that the sheets were stained red, and Lotor could only lie helplessly on the bed with wracked sobs and whispered apologies. He thought to the secret tally he kept underneath the _en suite_ sink . . . another day, but this day marked with blood . . . he laughed and wondered whether he could keep another tally . . . a red tally . . .

“You will not be able to ambush me again,” spat Sendak.

Sendak yanked at the chain. It was tied to the stripper pole, which was firmly fixed into place, and – with a long sigh – he walked the perimeter of the room with the chain in hand . . . _by the television, in the en suite, to the bedside_. . . it stopped short just of the bottom few steps of the staircase, which meant that Lotor would be unable to access the only door. Lotor sniffed and listened as Sendak marched across the room to his side. The chain clinked.

It bore a leather cuff at the end in Sendak’s hold. He slowly unbuckled the cuff and wrapped it around Lotor’s leg, muttering about it being adjustable with the years, and then locked it in placed with a small key that kept it fixed around his lower limb. Lotor lacked the strength to fight back. The pain that seared over his flesh was more than he could bare, while every open wound wept and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he dazedly rolled his head back and forth while Sendak sighed and slapped hard at his buttock with a snarled:

“What did you hope to accomplish?”

“I want to go home,” whined Lotor. “I miss my mommy’s homemade cookies. I miss my daddy’s hugs. It’s scary here and I don’t like it when it’s dark, and my friends are all playing and studying and I’m here. My back hurts. My head hurts. _I want to go home_!”

“You can’t go home. You’re my pet and I own you.”

“I don’t want to be a pet. I want to be a _son_.”

Sendak said nothing. He simply set about tidying the mess on the stairwell, while Lotor lay limp against the sheets and awaited the inevitable first-aid, and – as he lay naked and broken and beaten – he listened to the news station on the television. Lotor knew more about local events in the past few weeks than he had learnt in a lifetime, but some words still made no sense to him . . . _‘mortgage’, ‘interest rates’, ‘nuclear disarmament’_. . . he tried to pick up the definitions where he could, but without Internet access or any encyclopaedias . . .

That was when he heard a familiar voice. It was high-pitched and emotive, as he remembered a voice that he heard since the womb, and – as his heart sped up and breath hitched – he strove to turn his head as much as possible without catching Sendak’s attention. In his peripheral vision he saw a woman with straggly white hair and a more sunken face, but just similar enough to his mother that tears pricked at his eyes and he silently laughed.

_‘– reward for our son. I beg you, if you have any information that may lead to his safe return, to talk to the police or contact the number provided. Our – Our son is still scared of the dark and his favourite ice cream is cookie-dough, and he – he – he loves cowboys so much that –’_

“What sentimental nonsense,” muttered Sendak.

Sendak snatched at the television remote. He turned off the screen with a press of the button, but the damage was already done . . . no matter what he claimed, his parents wanted him . . .  Lotor smiled and buried his face into the sheets, as Sendak climbed the stairs to take the pieces of food and glass to the garbage. There would be no food tonight. Still, Lotor laughed through his tears as he fought to memorise her voice. He remembered how she told him fairy tales at night from Daibazaal, how she would sing recipes to her favourite meals . . .

“I better clean those wounds,” called Sendak.

Lotor said nothing, but he awaited patiently the first-aid kit. The lotions would sting his skin and burn at his wounds, but they would ultimately provide a small comfort and help his flesh to heal without any noticeable scars, and the lacks of scars appeared to make Sendak happy, which meant larger meals and more rewards. He said nothing as Sendak descended the staircase, but instead played his mother’s words over and over in his mind, until they became like a mantra and the world ceased to exist apart from those few sentences . . .

* * *

“Do you not like your books?”

Lotor flinched. The chain around his naked ankle rattled; it was heavy around his tiny limb, enough that it left bruises on his flesh that shone in various shades of green and blue, and – as he rubbed at the skin – the remnants of lotion stuck to his fingers. Sendak chuckled and knelt before the king-sized bed, as he took the small foot into hand and massaged his ankle, as if the small touches might somehow prevent future sprains and small cuts. Lotor sniffed.

The novels beside him were from the school reading list, although for the upcoming fourth grade, and he also noted various workbooks for mathematics and science, along with a few history books and geographical maps. He smiled, despite the pain in his ankle. If he could memorise the contents of his books, it was possible he could continue school like normal once the police rescued him, and that meant he could spend time with his friends and play in the playground and continue to get straight A-grades to make his papa proud.

“Yeah, I guess,” muttered Lotor.

He noticed all presents came with conditions. The toys came with massages, while the movies came with cuddles, and any kind of protest – _any complaint, any shove, any attempt to get away_ – was met with violence and cruel words. Lotor placed his fingers on the map; it was cool to the touch and smooth from the lamination, while he could just about make out their country from the others, but he furrowed his brow in the realisation he was unable to even tell his state from the next, and soon pulled his hand away with a frown.

Sendak took the pile of books, which he placed onto the table. Lotor watched him with a lazy eye, as he anticipated another hug or massage or perhaps a kiss, and all he wanted was to study and read and pretend to be anywhere else . . . he sniffed and wiped at his nose with his forearm, while Sendak came back and sat beside him. A hand came around his neck. Lotor was pushed to the floor, where he was dragged by his hair in front of Sendak.

It hurt to kneel on the cold floor. Lotor fidgeted, but Sendak used his hands to keep him stuck between two parted legs and stroked at his hair, and Lotor – with a sigh – allowed Sendak to treat him as no more than a pet or a doll, something to be played with for comfort and contentment. He said nothing, even as a thumb brushed against his lips and tried to push its way inside, but a splutter was all Sendak needed to push the rough pad of his digit inside an unwilling mouth. Lotor choked and coughed and tried to pull away, as Sendak spat:

“You must pay for what is given, Slave.”

Tears pricked at his eyes. Lotor tried to pull away, as his heart sped and his blood ran cold, but the thumb continued to press at his tongue and touch at his throat, until bile was rising and acid burned at his mouth. The thumb was removed, but Lotor could still taste something bitter and the panic refused to subside. He choked on air with desperate gasps. A look up to Sendak revealed a man who licked his lips and palmed his pee-pee, which was odd to Lotor and a little frightening . . . it looked like it was growing inside his pants.

“I don’t have any money,” mumbled Lotor.

“You have your body, don’t you?” Sendak unbuttoned his trousers. “I bet you’ve never drank ‘daddy milk’ before, have you? Your stuffy shit of a father lacks the balls. Today you’re going to learn about a ‘blow job’, which is a way to make men feel good.”

Sendak unzipped his pants. A large pee-pee stood upright from his body; it looks hard and stiff, unlike anything Lotor had ever seen in his life, and yet – although it was short and stumpy at just three inches – it was so wide that he would struggle to wrap his hands around it, if he had any such inclination. A thick vein ran along the underside, while the balls were massive and even larger than the pee-pee itself. Dread ran through his body, as Lotor widened his eyes and struggled to breathe through an encroaching panic.

“You’re going to suck my cock, boy.” Sendak grasped at Lotor’s hair. “Put your lips over your teeth, because – if you _dare_ to bite me – I’ll put out your teeth one by one. You will use your tongue along the vein and slit. You will suck and moan. Understand?”

“I don’t want to,” sobbed Lotor. “I don’t want to!”

Sendak yanked Lotor’s head closer. The stench of sweat was heavy around his balls, while Lotor screamed and tried to pull away as his nose touched the ‘cock’, and – with eyes blurred and stinging through his tears – he noticed the skin was immensely soft, like velvet covering a metal rod. Sendak growled once more, as he yanked at his hair until a few strands came loose and blood ran down the side of his face. The pain was worse than the humiliation and terror, even as he choked on snot and salvia and tears. Sendak sneered: “No one gives a _shit_ what you want, slut.”

* * *

_‘I don’t want to do this.’_

_A hand struck his face. It hurt and brought blood to his lip; the taste of iron brought Lotor back to the cold reality of his situation, as he brought a trembling hand to the broken skin and winced as a sharp sting shot through his body. He sniffed and shivered. Sendak pulled back his fist high into the air, as if he were going to punch Lotor with full-force, but – as Lotor screamed – he only laughed and continued to strip naked. Lotor wept._

_Sendak reached down to grab at Lotor’s wrists. It bruised the skin and let left visible red marks, especially as Lotor fought with cries of ‘no, no, no’ . . . tears streamed down his cheeks, every breath was a choked hiccup . . . he pulled and pulled until he lost all feeling in his wrist, until his palm was forced to touch that warm cock. Sendak struggled to make him place his fingers around the length, even as he let out a long growl. Lotor spat out one final ‘no’! Sendak roared out in rage and slapped his face hard. Lotor wept as he heard:_

_‘If you want your dinner, milk my cock, bitch!’_

* * *

Lotor woke with a scream.

A searing pain ran through his lower body. It was as if he were being ripped in two, like a sharp blade cutting through skin, and it was so red hot – so intense – that tears ran down his cheeks and his dreams were soon forgotten. The basement was pitch-black. Lotor struggled to see through weeping eyes, as sweat merged with tears and stung with further pain. A dark figure was above him. It grunted and groaned and growled. _Loud_.

Lotor soon became aware of thick fur scratching against his skin. A hand was buried into his long hair, gripping until his scalp ached and his head was forced to crane backward, and another hand – callused fingers and sharp claws – was wrapped around his tiny boy-cock, where it jerked up and down as if there were a purpose. It did nothing to ease his pain, as he realised the pain came from inside. Sendak thrust above him. Lotor was confused, scared, alone . . . he reached down . . . that thick and round member was inside his hole.

Sendak panted above him, with mouth inches from his cheek. Every breath was warm and moist on his skin, so loud that he could hear it above his heart, and Lotor – desperate for the internal agony to stop – wept and pounded hard against that muscular chest. He struck. He fought. He _bit_. It was only stopped when Sendak let go of his hair. A hand slammed down on his neck and gripped until he choked for breath and struggled to breathe.

“You’re such a good fuck,” muttered Sendak.

Lotor clawed and scratched at the hand. He spluttered for breath until his cheeks turned from purple to blue, until – at last – Sendak let loose his grip enough for Lotor to draw in large gulps of air and pant to regain consciousness. Sendak thrust harder inside him, even as Lotor gripped hard at his wrist and begged over and over . . . _‘no, no, no_ ’ . . . he remembered what his father said about special places . . . _private_ places . . . it was _his_ place.

He was once told stories about his ‘first time’, when he asked how babies were made . . . _a beautiful wedding, someone you love, no pain and only happiness_. . . he wondered whether Honerva lied, as only pain and sadness and violation swept through his muscles. Lotor wanted to sleep. Lotor wanted the pain to leave. This was supposed to be his safe space, because the monsters never got you underneath the covers, but now . . . now the monsters lifted up the covers while he slept, now the monsters touched his body while he dreamt . . .

“ _So tight_.” Sendak cried out. “ _Mine_!”

Lotor let his pain boil up in his throat . . . a closed-mouth moan, an open-mouth cry, a loud scream . . . he fought again until his small fingers clawed lines down Sendak’s cheek. Blood bubbled at the edges of the lines. It ran down over his mouth. Sendak curled his lip and narrowed his eyes, as he paused in his thrusts, but the moment of relief was short-lived, as both hands wrapped around Lotor’s neck and gripped until dark bruises appeared and his vision blurred with bright spots. He grew light-headed, weak, nauseous . . .

A burning pain encompassed his lungs, until he could breathe no more, and – just when he thought he would die never seeing his parents again – the hands released their pressure, so that he could cough and gasp and cough up chunks of vomit onto the pillow. There was no time to regain control of his body. A clenched fist collided with his nose, until it cracked and blood poured down his face and his mouth was flooded with iron. Sendak growled.

“Learn your place, bitch,” spat Sendak.

The thrusts began again. They banged hard and fast, until the only sounds were of balls banging on buttocks and the squelch of blood and lubrication on every inward thrust, and Lotor stared at the ceiling just above Sendak’s shoulder with wet eyes and bleeding nose. The pain was too intense to ignore. He prayed to God. He prayed to his parents. On every inward thrust, as he prayed it would be the last, he thought to when Honerva would kiss his cuts or when Zarkon would bandage his burns . . . the memories brought no comfort . . .

* * *

_“How often do I need to do this?”_

_“As often as I damned well want, come-slut.”_

* * *

Lotor brought a hand to his chest; every beat was loud enough to sound in his ears, deafening him to all other sounds, while his chest contracted and his heart raced, and – as time went on – he struggled to find breath. He hyperventilated. It should have been possible to choke on air, but somehow it caught in his throat and merged with bile and tears, until he was swallowing back painful lumps that stung every muscle in his neck. Lotor laughed a broken laugh.

_It’s eight o’clock. The front door will slam shut._

Lotor looked to the clock on the television programme . . . some news show, a panel of women talking about politics, a twenty-four hour clock in the corner . . . the door would always open and close at the _exact_ same time Monday to Friday, while on Saturdays the door would open and close at ten o’clock instead. Sendak would return today around twelve, where for half-an-hour his footsteps would be heard loud in the kitchen directly above. The plate of food would be brought down at twelve-thirty and left there until the afternoon.

_It’s Wednesday. It will be grilled fish with boiled rice and a salad._

He quickly ran across the room to the _en suite_ , even as the chain on his ankle clanked and clicked with the movement, and crawled on all fours to a spot beneath the sink, where – with the sharp point of a stolen paperclip – he etched a shaky line onto the tally on the tiles. Lotor would be eight in a few weeks. A tear formed to think about the astronaut-cowboy party his parents promised, even while baffled at his choice of a theme. Lotor sobbed.

_He’s too tired for sex on a Wednesday; at least, I can sleep tonight._

* * *

The television flickered into life.

Lotor watched as the local news from one story to another. He recognised the school that was in dire need of funding, as well as the house of the banker arrested for embezzlement, and he even recognised the face of ‘Pidge’ whose murderer still went at large, but what caught his attention was the detective in charge of his case. Lotor quickly pressed the volume on the remote control, until the man’s words beamed out from behind the screen.

_‘– result of a lack of leads, we regrettably much close the case. Rest assured, we will periodically review the disappearance of Lotor, while we have been told that private funding has been given to help continue a private investigation into his current location, and –’_

They had given up on him.

A choked cry escaped Lotor’s lips, as he raised a trembling hand to his mouth. The bile and acid that rose high burned his tongue, forcing him to choke and retch, and it took all his strength and luck to run toward the _en suite_ , where he threw up into the toilet bowl. A terrible stench rose high, as he wept and cried and choked, and he knew that no one would ever find him . . . never would he graduate from school, get married to his beloved, have a child . . .

He thought back to his parents . . . _hugs, kisses, laughter_. . . it was possible they no longer cared to find him, just as it was possible they might just replace him or forget about him, and he clutched at his chest as he remembered his last conversations with them. He remembered too well refusing to eat his mother’s homemade breakfast, as he longed for some cereal seen on television, and he remembered running away from his father, hiding by the front gate. He remembered how they were frustrated. He remembered they had no reason to love him.

Lotor remembered well his last words:

_‘I hate you’._

* * *

_There was a noise upstairs!_

Lotor ran as close to the stairwell as his chain allowed. A couple of shadows appeared underneath the gap of the door, where two men appeared to stand close together, and – with a broken laugh – a sharp sense of hope shot through Lotor’s veins. The chain clattered along the floor, as he stood naked at the very bottom step. He struggled to tell who the other person may have been, but the voice was deep and definitely male, and his heart raced in his chest.

A broken laugh escaped his lips, while tears streamed down his cheeks, and he stretched out as far as he could move until he _just_ managed to get his foot on the second step, while the cuff tugged so hard on his ankle that the leather cut into his skin. He pulled over and over, but the chain merely tightened and lengthened and refused to break. If he could just reach the doorway, maybe he could get the other man’s attention, and maybe someone would break down the door and come to his rescue. Lotor started to panic as the footsteps moved away.

 _It was his only chance to escape_!

Lotor snatched at the glass at the bottom of the stairs. It sat on the tray of leftover food, ready to be carried away and replaced with something else later that afternoon, but the glass was sturdy and hard in his hand, cold and clear enough to shatter with some force. He bounced it in his hand, as his heart pounded in his ears and his blood ran cold. Sendak would whip him if no one came to his rescue . . . the whips would come out, his back would be bloodied . . . it took Lotor a long few seconds to make his decision. He closed his eyes.

The glass flew through the air, as Lotor hurtled it towards the door. It smashed into a thousand pieces, scattering across the top few steps, as Lotor screamed out until he ran out of breath, and he kicked and punched at every surface and threw anything within reach. A press of a button turned the television to its maximum volume, while his ears rang and stung. He screamed and screamed. He tasted blood at the back of his throat.

 _“I’m here_ ,” Lotor cried. _“Please! I’m here!”_

Lotor continued to scream until all breath left him. He prayed the other man would return, especially when loud footsteps were heard running towards the door, and – as seconds felt like hours – he widened his eyes and froze at the base of the staircase. Lotor waited to be rescued, as someone fiddled with the doorknob. They cursed. He laughed with sheer relief and collapsed to his knees. The relief was short-lived when he looked upward . . .

Sendak was livid. He stood dominating the doorway, with lips pulled back to reveal fanged teeth, and his eye narrowed and breath left in short pouts, while his hands clenched into tight fists that actually caused blood to drip from his palm. A cold dread washed over Lotor, as he stumbled backward and looked over Sendak’s shoulder. _No one_. The person was long gone, leaving Lotor alone with his captor and no means of escape. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he crawled and climbed over toward the bed, while he muttered ‘no’ like a mantra.

Lotor raised his hands high in surrender and defence; hyperventilation began, sweat broke, dizziness settled . . . _‘no, no, no’_. . . the world ran in slow-motion, as Sendak roared like a wild animal and bounded down the stairs with massive smashes of fists on walls. Lotor was sure he would faint, as that body came ever close and towered over him with spit flying from his mouth, as he kicked at the bed-frame so hard that it nearly toppled. Sendak screamed:

“ _You little shit!_ ”

Pain overrode all coherent thought. Fist after fist collided with his small frame, over and over and over, until he tasted blood and could no longer move from the broken ribs and sprained wrists, and all he could do was sob and weep and scream as Sendak beat him until blood ran into his eyes and blinded him to all around him. Sendak finally stopped once he was out of breath. Lotor gave a broken laugh of relief, as he collapsed against cool sheets, but his relief was short-lived when Sendak snatched the whip from the chest of drawers.

“You little shit,” spat Sendak.

The pain continued.

* * *

“I don’t want to play.”

Lotor scrambled across the bed. He was all too aware of his nakedness, as the chain attached to his ankle clattered and clanked against the pole and along the tiled floor, and the sheets were all too cold against his purple skin. The basement was clean and organised, with a selection of sexual toys spread out across a plastic sheet centre of the main room, and he paled to various cameras lining the perimeter of the plastic. It chilled him.

A tall man stood beside Sendak, as he leaned against the wall. He bore a cybernetic arm and a white streak through his hair, while his clothes were black and skin-tight, and Lotor sobbed as he whispered ‘ _help me’_ in hopes that this might finally be his escape. The man refused to make eye contact with him, as his lips pursed into a thin line and his dark eyes watered, but despite his clear discomfort he was their of his own volition. He _chose_ to be in that basement; it was a thought Lotor could barely process, even as he choked for air and wept.

The small boy . . . Keith Kogane . . . sat with a huge smile. He was equally as naked, but his stomach was swollen and was extended, and he would run his hands over the flesh while he kicked his legs over the side of the bed. Lotor wondered how he could seem so happy, as if he liked being naked or filmed in sexual positions, and – while Shiro fucked him against the plastic – he only cried out in pleasure with no complaints. Lotor almost envied him.

“It’ll be fun,” chirped Keith. “It feels good, I promise.”

Lotor laughed. The tears ran over his lips and tasted bitter, while he glared at Keith and tried to comprehend how he could tell such lies . . . Lotor knew all about sex . . . _searing pain only ever eased by foreplay or lubrication, dirty words and cruel insults, and the constant sweat and saliva and semen that coated his skin_. . . he clenched at the sheets until his knuckles turned white, as a searing hot rage overcame his entire frame. Lotor trembled.

He listened as Keith hummed a strange tune. He watched as Keith jumped down and waddled over to the plastic sheet, where he lay on his back and started to work at his cock, and – with a wince – Lotor realised that Keith _enjoyed_ touching himself, even with two grown men and five cameras all watching him with eager eyes and lenses. The man – Shiro – sighed and folded his arms, as he looked over to Lotor. Lotor strove to hide his body beneath the sheets, even as he wept and shook his head over and over, but no one cared. Shiro asked:

“You said he’s nine?”

“The perfect age to play with your little one,” observed Sendak. “He is well trained, although he does still act out, but I suspect the baby will calm him a considerable amount, as he will seek to behave in order to protect the infant. He will make a perfect slave.”

“You already paid a fortune for Keith.” Shiro ran a hand through his hair. “That was _one_ time, Sendak. You know that, right? You paid to impregnate him and keep the baby, so this little fuck-session with Lotor is extra and _entirely_ on Keith’s terms. I know sex can kick-start puberty in Galra, but Lotor still looks . . . he still looks like a _boy_ , Sendak.”

“You want to back out already? This is ten-thousand dollars, Shiro.”

“No!” Keith cried out. “I want to play, please! I want it!”

Lotor sniffed and sobbed, as he wondered how the deal came about. He wondered whether Keith begged to fuck another child, especially as there seemed to be a ‘ground rule’ only Shiro could fuck him, or maybe Sendak offered them the money and they couldn’t refuse. It was a moot point, because the happiness he saw on seeing the boy at first glance . . . at maybe having a friend, at maybe not being alone . . . was killed dead by his ‘slutty’ mannerisms.

A terrible part of him feared _that_ was his future.

Keith was already on both knees, while he reached between his legs for his cock, and – milking it and working it with lubrication – he was already hard as nails and panting for breath, while his body flushed dark red and his hole leaked come. The eyes were dilated and the lips were swollen. It was impossible to be entirely an act, as Lotor knew that certain physical reactions were involuntary, and yet how could anyone _want_ sex?

Sendak marched over to the bed. He grabbed at Lotor’s arm and dragged him over to the plastic, even as Lotor hyperventilated and clawed at his arms until blood formed, and – with choked and desperate gasps for breath – Sendak slapped him across his face. Keith cried out and ran to Shiro, who knelt down to reassure him with whispered shushes and hummed tunes, but the sound seemed to echo loudly around Lotor’s skull. A searing pain screamed through Lotor’s cheeks, as the sheer shock knocked him into total stillness. He collapsed.

“That little stunt earned you ten whips,” spat Sendak.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” muttered Lotor.

“You better fucking be sorry.” Sendak slapped him again. “You want to fucking eat tonight, huh? Well, you better get onto your back and spread those legs. Keith is going to fuck you until you bleed, boy, and he’ll pump you full with hot sperm. You dare make me smack you again and you won’t get any food tonight _or_ tomorrow. Now fucking behave!”

Lotor wept.

He wept as he lay on his back. He wept as he spread his legs. He wept even as Keith sobbed and said he could not bear to make someone else sad, but still the tears flowed down the sides of his head and into his hair, while he gripped at his ankles and kept his legs in position. It was humiliating to be spread open. He struggled to see through blurred eyes, but he knew his member was limp and his nose was bloody, and yet Keith was soon escorted between his legs and gently positioned with his half-hard member near Lotor’s ass.

Keith had a belly so huge that penetration would be difficult. It would be even move difficult with his cock rapidly deflating and his eyes filling with water, and – as he looked back to the door adults – Shiro sighed and quickly stripped off once more. He came behind Keith and knelt down, so that he could trail kisses down his neck and carefully play with his nipples, until Keith threw back his head and slowly became aroused once more.

“Keith isn’t a sadist,” observed Shiro.

Sendak growled, as he marched to the _en suite_. There was a clatter of the very highest shelf being reached, while a metal box was removed and opened, and Lotor – with only _very_ vague memories of extremely severe panic attacks – knew there would be a needle inside. Indeed, Sendak marched over and sat cross-legged next to the trembling child. He snatched at Lotor’s arm and draped it over his lap, while he pressed a needle into his flesh with an all too familiar sting, and Lotor could only watch as the liquid inside vanished into his veins.

“This will put the bitch to sleep,” spat Sendak.

“What good will that do, Sendak?”

“He won’t fucking sob or feel any pain.”

A lightheaded sensation soon overcame Lotor. A burst of arousal shot through his groin. He grew harder and harder, while his muscles grew heavier and heavier, and a strange mixture of sensations overwhelmed him, until his vision blurred . . . voices echoed in and out, half like a dream as one rapidly changed into another . . . he slowed his breaths . . . _relaxing_. . . Lotor murmured as a finger was pushed into him and his eyes closed, while the room spun and spots appeared over his vision . . . he sighed and pleasant dreams washed over him . . .

Lotor finally slept.

* * *

The sheets were cool and soft against his skin, while he listened to Sendak undress. The sounds were all too familiar . . . _first his shirt, second his pants, third his underwear, socks optional_. . . it was a cruel and painful routine. If he fought back, he would be beaten. If he cried, it would only add to the sadism. There was no point in resisting . . . he missed the days being made to do his homework, being made to clean his room . . .

The bed dipped beside him. Lotor hated the stench of the strong cologne, as if Sendak bathed in the foul liquid, and he would forever associate the scent with oncoming sexual acts . . . he knew his body was no longer his own . . . lips pressed against his collarbone, with small slurps and sucks that brought involuntary responses. The sensation of his member growing forced him to grip the sheets, until he was sure crescent-shaped cuts appeared on his palms and holes appeared in the sheets. Bile rose to his throat. He swallowed hard.

He would wash once Sendak was finished . . . _keep the temperature high enough to hurt, stay under long enough to wash away the shame, but don’t scrub until you bleed . . . he hates when you bleed_. . . the rough pads of fingers ran over his purple thighs, while claws gently teased at his skin. Lotor screwed shut his eyes. The sweat and tears merged to sting, only adding to more sweat and more tears, while his vision blurred and eyes strained.

Sendak pulled his legs up high.

A tongue at his hole . . . tears ran free down his cheeks, as he struggled to understand how his body could self-lubricate when he would rather be anywhere else, and he lay still and lifeless as Sendak pushed his tongue inside and lapped at his hole. A finger toyed with the few short hairs around his crotch, which grew with a strange sense of eeriness . . . _‘when will I look like you, Papa?’ . . . laughter and a ruffled head . . . ‘when you find the one you love, son, when you are an adult and the same height as me_. . . Lotor smiled at memories.

The bed dipped again, but this time his legs were draped over shoulders. Sendak lined his cock to the waiting hole, while his hands roamed over Lotor’s body, and soon one hand tweaked at a nipple while another pulled at his cock . . . Lotor gasped . . . the pleasure was intense, cold, uncontrollable . . . Lotor mewled. A warm sweat broke over his flesh, as tears ran down his cheeks, and he grabbed at those muscular shoulders.

He would never forgive himself for that enjoyment.

* * *

Lotor bit at Sendak’s neck. He struggled to control his racing heart, as pure terror overcame him. Sendak moaned and buried his hands into Lotor’s long hair, while he allowed Lotor to suck a love-bite into existence with regular bucks of his hips, and soon his hands were roaming over Lotor’s naked flesh with particular attention paid to his buttocks. The callused pads of his fingers avoided the bruises and cuts, while they focussed immensely on massaging his pale skin.

Lotor feigned a moan, as he licked at Sendak’s neck.

It appeared his suspicions were true: resistance brought violence, reciprocation brought rewards. Sendak even paid careful attention to his hole, enough that Lotor cried out and pushed down towards the digit, and – with a loud chuckle – Sendak gently lifted Lotor up from his lap and guided him over to the bed. Lotor was laid down with complete reverence, while Sendak looked over his flesh with a warm smile and a lick of his lips.

Lotor spread his legs until the sheets were pulled from the corners. He arched his back much like how the women did on the adult movies that sometimes played, while he threw his arms above his head much as he saw them do on the films, and – letting out an exaggerated groan – he slid a hand down over his nipples towards his member. The touch of rough curls was uncomfortable, as pubic hair started to grow despite his nine years alive, and he purposely lifted his hips and pushed a finger to his hole, as he toyed around the edges.

“Hmm, feels good,” lied Lotor.

_It always hurt less when prepared more._

A press of his finger allowed the digits to slide until the first digit, where he gave an exaggerated cry and brought his free hand to his lips, and – crying again – slid two digits into his open mouth with tongue lathing at the skin. He looked to Sendak and saw his erection straining towards his stomach, as the thick knot at the base of his penis expanded and pre-come wept over the flared head towards heavy balls. Lotor smiled and tilted his head, which allowed a small amount of come to drip down the sides of his mouth. Sendak whispered:

“You like your hole being played with?”

“I like when it’s wet and loose,” murmured Lotor. “You make it feel good when you press that spot inside, so I just wanted you to play with it and make it good again. Can you fill me up, please? I want to feel good. I like it when you make me feel good.”

Sendak snatched at the lubrication. It was only ever used to prevent permanent damage, as an absolute bare minimum, but now – with panted breaths and dilated eyes – Sendak squirted so much onto his hand that it dripped onto the sheets and stained them with the scent of strawberry liquid. Sendak crawled onto the bed and spread Lotor’s legs wider. He crouched and knocked Lotor’s hand away, as he pressed a finger inside and groaned as Lotor pushed out with enough experience to know it would help ease the finger inside.

Lotor writhed and moaned, but his voice sounded strange. It was deeper than usual, as if his voice came from another person, but soon his voice returned to normal and he reached to his chest to play with his nipples, while Sendak swore and stuck another finger inside him. If he could coax Sendak into three or four, he might get away with completely painless intercourse and enable himself to walk properly in the morning. Sendak asked in a low voice:

“What has brought about this change of heart?”

“I think my body is changing,” muttered Lotor. “I feel good a lot.”

“Sex starts puberty with Galra children.” Sendak swore and pushed another finger inside. “I had hoped being part Altean would delay these changes, as I enjoy you hairless and high-pitched in your cries, so much like a child . . . a baby . . . you will self-lubricate when aroused, but I will also need to use condoms. I do hate those things. They dull the sensations.”

“If you make me feel good, I can make you feel good?” Lotor chanced. “You can still pull out before you come. I can still lick you and jerk you and frot against you. Please, Daddy, I feel so hot . . . _my body is on fire_. . . I need you inside me. Fuck me, _please_.”

“You have never begged me before.” Sendak smiled. “I like this.”

A fourth finger was added, while more lubrication was added. It ached and stung, but it was not painful and certainly not agonising, and – as Lotor gripped at the sheets and arched his back with a sweat – Sendak started to scissor his hands, while he curled one finger in search of Lotor’s prostate. It was sickening to be exposed and open to a man that only wanted to use him, but Lotor wanted the pain to stop . . . there was no other way to make it painless, no other way to stop the screams of agony . . . he thrust down again and again.

“Please, fuck me,” begged Lotor. “Fill my boy-pussy.”

Sendak ripped his fingers away. He jumped from the bed and searched quickly the drawers by the bedside table, while Lotor continued his act of pleasure, but his heart raced . . . he heard nothing but the heavy pounding in his ears, while a cold sweat broke over his body, and his lip trembled as he reached down for his member. Lotor forced the length to form into an erection, even as he feared that the whip would be brought out. He hated the whip.

The seconds turned into minutes, until Sendak turned back. He held in his hand a small square wrapped in foil, which he tore open with his teeth to show a condom, and – stomach churning with both dread and relief – Lotor let out a long breath and licked his lips. Sendak cursed again, as he struggled to force the condom over his length. Lotor memorised how he pinched the tip and rolled it down, as he prayed that he might remember enough to apply the condom next time, as it seemed the act might arouse Sendak further.

Sendak jumped onto the bed and grabbed Lotor’s legs. They were draped over his shoulders, while he crawled between parted thighs and groaned on sight of the moisture, and Lotor smiled to see how Sendak coated his erection with further lubrication. _It was working_! The seduction and dirty talk made Sendak more receptive to kindness and preparation, and – as he slid in to the very base – Lotor gasped loudly with surprised pleasure. He screamed out:

 _“Fuck me, Daddy_!”

* * *

It was a beautiful baby.

Lotor gently held him as instructed. The baby was wrapped in an expensive blue blanket, which complemented his blue-grey eyes and almost human expression, and the rich purple fur on appeared on his Galra ears and a patch on his chest. He bore a head of thick black hair and rich purple skin, so that he may even have passed for Lotor’s son with a change of hair colour, and those lips would suckle at his thumb as if it were a teat.

He was so wondrously expressive, with wide yawns and loud sneezes. Lotor sank carefully down into the new rocking chair, while Sendak built the cot against the wall closest to the _en suite_ , but everything else . . . changing mats, cuddly toys, nappy bags . . . they were piled against the wall by the games consoles, ready for him to arrange as he saw fit, and a part of him was excited to create a warm home for the infant. There were even a selection of baby movies and music, including Galra lullabies that even Lotor had long forgotten.

The chain around Lotor’s ankle was a little looser. He suspected Sendak loosened it too much on purpose, as he could easily slip his foot from the leather cuff, but – in an attempt to gain his trust – he left it on his foot and mentioned the looseness often . . . _‘I didn’t think I was supposed to wander past the first few steps’, ‘my cuff is too loose’, ‘I feel even more naked when it’s not properly tight’ . . ._ Sendak appeared to buy the act. Lotor rocked with the baby in his arms, even as the cuff kept falling nearly off his foot.

Sendak finally finished the cot, as he stood and cracked his back. He walked over to Lotor, who cradled the baby to his naked chest, and he wondered whether the boy would grow to know modesty or whether he would think such nudity to be the norm. Lotor furrowed his brow, although he forced a feigned groan of pleasure when Sendak reached down to massage his shoulders, especially when he dug into the knots in his muscles and whispered:

“What do you wish to name him?”

The question hung heavy in the air. Lotor looked down to the baby, who looked so much like Keith and yet was so much like Sendak, and – as Lotor pushed a lock of black hair behind a Galra ear – he wondered how much a baby cost. There would be no paperwork for this little angel, so Lotor made a mental note to write down the date so he would still get a ‘birthday’, and he would also keep a baby book so that the child would always have a record . . . _first lock of hair, first tooth, first words_. . . Lotor smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Lotor breathed deep the unique smell, but he noted the gunk and goo that still marked part of his skin, and he eyed the baby-bath across the way and wondered whether he should wash the child, especially as it surprised him to see the baby look almost bloody in parts. He wondered whether the baby had just been born. Lotor let out a long sigh and stroked the rosy cheeks with his thumb, while he hummed to himself and asked in a quiet voice:

“I get to name him?”

“You have pleased me as of late,” said Sendak. “I also think the responsibility of a baby will help you to behave, as well as may give you an outlet for your attentions. You are ten now, Lotor, which means you grow tired and bored, but a baby will prevent this from being an issue, and if you ever misbehave . . . I will _kill_ that child. You have his life in your hands.”

A cold chill ran through his flesh. Lotor glanced down to the babe, who kept his eyes closed for the most part and lay so silent in his arms, and he could not imagine any harm befalling an innocent child whose life lay completely in his hands . . . _helpless, vulnerable, weak_. . . he was so much like the child when he first arrived in the basement, but there was no one to protect him and no one to save him. Lotor took in a deep breath, as Sendak worked at his shoulders and kissed at his white hair with murmurs of contentment. Lotor asked:

“Can I name him ‘Throk’, Sir?”

“You may name him as you wish,” said Sendak. “He is yours.”

“Didn’t Keith give birth to him, though?”

Sendak sighed and came around to kneel before him. Two hands were placed on his thighs, where they moved up and down in light circles, but Lotor knew well the difference between a ‘comforting’ touch and a ‘sexual’ touch enough to know not to worry for the moment, especially when Sendak refused to meet his eye and looked to Throk. He smiled at the baby and reached out to stroke his cheek, with such a twinkle to his eyes that it was clear he would never harm the baby as he so claimed. Lotor leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

“He is yours,” said Sendak, “just as you are mine.”

“If I’m yours, it means I have to do whatever you say, doesn’t it?” Lotor furrowed his brow. “If that means he’s mine, he has to do whatever _I_ say, too, right? In that case, you aren’t allowed to hurt him or do anything sexual with him . . . I – I don’t want anyone else to touch you like _I_ touch you, which is why I’ll do _anything_ you want to do to him, Sir.”

“If he is bad and I want to whip him -? If I am horny and want to fuck him -?”

“I’ll bend over and ask ‘how hard’.” Lotor licked his lips with a smirk. “I’ll ask the same on both counts, Sir, because all I want is for you to feel good . . . when you feel good then _I_ feel good. I’ll obey your every order, just so long as you never make Throk sad.”

“And if I make Throk happy, you will make me feel happy?”

“Five ways from Sunday,” swore Lotor.

Sendak gently took Throk from his arms. Throk was placed into the freshly built cot, where he was swaddled and covered with a kind touch, and soon Lotor felt his stomach roll so that bile and half-digested food clung to the back of his throat . . . _Sendak was testing him, Sendak wanted more_. . . Lotor stood and pulled his hair over one shoulder, while he cocked his head to the side to expose the full run of his neck. He held back tears, as he sauntered over to the bed and climbed onto the sheets on all fours. Lotor leaned forward, buttock exposed.

It took only a few seconds for Sendak to come behind him. A tongue was pressed to his waiting hole, while lips suckled and teeth nibbled the rim, and Lotor swore loud and brought his hands quickly to cover his mouth. The sickening wave of pleasure brought a wave of nausea through his stomach, especially as a finger was slid deep inside him and pressed at his prostate with expert skill. Lotor clawed at the sheets and gasped for breath.

“Let me pound you, Slave,” prompted Sendak.

“With pleasure, Master,” lied Lotor.

* * *

“Please, stop crying,” begged Lotor.

Lotor flicked on the television. It took only a few clicks to find the right station, where all the shows were about mothers and children, and remembering what Sendak _very_ briefly told him about newborns . . . _support the neck, beware the soft spot of the head, do not lie him on his stomach_. . . Lotor struggled to lift Throk up against his chest. He tried to copy the mother on the programme, who talked about the heartbeat comforting the infant.

He was already naked, which meant the skin-to-skin contact would provide a comfort, and he was able to get Throk’s ear to rest just above his heart, which quietened Throk at once, even as he gurgled and moaned with little clenches of tiny fists. The diaper was still dry, but felt oddly large and squishy to the touch. Lotor rested one hand on the buttocks and one around the neck, as he cradled Throk as close as possible and cursed how heavy a newborn felt to ten-year old arms, and rested his nose against purple fur with a deep inhale of breath.

Lotor smiled as he took deep the scent. It must have been the ‘baby smell’ that people talked about on the programmes, something natural to all the lotions and talcum powder and soaps, and Lotor gently bounced Throk and rocked him from side to side. He was far smaller than the babies on television, but one of the shows about development said that was normal, which reassured Lotor and helped him to feel better about his presence.

“You’re my only friend here, Throk.”

He struggled to hold back tears, as he thought back to his friends. Lotor could barely remember how Zethrid looked, while he caught on the news about how Narti died in a hit-and-run, and he wondered how long until they forgot about him . . . a tear ran down his cheek, unable to hold back his grief even as Throk provided him a small hope. He laughed through his pain, even as the flickering television illuminated the room with images of another world.

It reminded him of what he lost. Lotor gripped Throk a little closer, as he cast his eyes to the alarm clock and written timetable tacked to the wall, and – with a sigh of relief – he realised Sendak handed him one more reason to memorise precise routines and rhythms of the household, so that . . . one day . . . he might use it to his advantage. Lotor let his tears fall, as he laughed through his pain and laid dozens of kisses to Throk’s head, while he swallowed back his pain and swore to gain access to the upper floors. He whispered to Throk:

“Thank you for being my friend.”

* * *

Lotor sighed, as he lay with legs spread and hands on his ankles. The sheets were fresh and perfectly placed, while his hole was leaking with lubrication and stretched to perfection, and – striving to look at seductive at possible – he arched his back with an exaggerated moan. Keith ignored him. It brought a pout to Lotor’s lips, as he frowned and moaned even louder, but Keith continued to laugh and giggle and play with Throk who sat comfortably in his cot.

Lotor threw himself upright, as his eleven-year old eyes glared at Keith. The boy was pregnant once more, although this time the father appeared to be Shiro, and he was evidently obsessed with Throk who captured his full attention. He knew full well that the sooner Sendak came, the sooner the act of sex would be over . . . it would likely be the same for Keith, even if his memories of their only time together were blurred with drugs and trauma, but the longer that Keith pulled faces at the loud infant -? Lotor rolled his eyes.

“Will you just fuck me already?” Lotor spat. “I’m hot and horny.”

Sendak laughed and cricked his neck. He sat by a far wall, while he watched Shiro helping Keith to balance as he climbed onto the side of the cot, and he seemed almost amused by how they adored Throk and fussed over him as if he were their world. Sendak soon cleared his throat, which caught Keith’s full attention, and – with a jerk of his head – he signalled over to the bed with a smile that bared his teeth and deepened the lines about his working eye. It brought a blush to Keith and forced him to jump down from the cot with a pout.

“My slut has grown impatient,” said Sendak.

“Sorry,” mumbled Keith. “I know you paid good money to watch us play, but Throk is so cute and I never got to see him before now! If we put on a good show, can I play with Throk for the afternoon? I like how he laughs. He makes me laugh, too.”

“If you can make Lotor come, you can play with Throk.”

“You promise? I want to play with Throk.”

Lotor grew impatient. He crawled off the bed, while he swung his legs around and lifted his hair high in the air with a seductive smirk and long moan, and – letting it fall like water from bare skin – he tilted his neck back and ran his hands down  his chest. Lotor tweaked his nipples and licked his lips, while he sauntered across to Keith with a sway of his hips, but Keith . . . with eyes fixated on Throk, eyes twinkling and bright . . . appeared completely unfazed by Lotor’s obvious flirtations and desire to get through the necessary act of sex.

He draped his arms around Keith’s neck, while he nibbled and suckled his earlobe. A good show would lead to extra portions of luxury foods and brand new video games, perhaps even the textbooks for his current school grade and an hour of supervised Internet access, but a bad show would lead to nothing and gain him nothing . . . the very last thing he wanted was to be whipped or beaten like the previous years, especially when there was no need.

“Come fuck me, first,” ordered Lotor.

Lotor slid his hands down to grope Keith’s buttocks. Keith gave an adorable squeak, which brought laughter spiralling forth from Lotor’s lips, while he reached out for that white hand and walked backwards towards the bed with Keith in toe. Together, they climbed onto the bed and ignored the various cameras around them. A soft touch of their lips revealed a sweet taste, like milk and honey, and Lotor groaned as he slid his tongue into waiting mouth.

There was little sense of arousal or desire, but neither was required for penetration. Lotor rolled onto his back and brought Keith on top of him, while swollen stomach pressed hard against his own with a strange sensation, and he spread his legs to wrap them around that tiny waist with a theatrical moan of pleasure. A tiny erection perked up between his buttocks, pressing ever closer to his winking hole, while they made out with great expertise. Lotor explored that perfect flesh with soft fingers. He almost missed as Sendak called out:

“Would you like to suck Throk’s dick afterward?”

Lotor snarled and glared over Keith’s shoulder. There was nothing he would refuse, while he would obey any and all commands, but he would allow _nothing_ that would harm Throk, so much that he would willingly endure any whipping should it come down to that. Sendak locked eyes with him with a smirk, before his lips trembled and he burst out into laughter, as he signalled for the two boys to continue in their carnal acts of intercourse

“Perhaps not,” laughed Sendak.

* * *

“I believe you have earned this.”

Sendak opened the basement door. A sharp natural light emanated forward; it was strong enough that Lotor rapidly blinked, as spots appeared on his vision, and – as he stumbled backward – he slipped on the step and the world spun fast around him. A sharp bolt of adrenaline coursed through him, as his mouth ran dry and his stomach rolled. Sendak caught his wrist. A sharp pull brought him back to his feet, as he gasped for breath.

He thought for a brief moment to his father . . . _‘if you fall, I will always be here to catch you’_. . . tears sprang to his eyes, as Sendak laughed and clapped a hand on his back, before he was led into the room beyond with soft chuckles. The light continued to sting his eyes. It reflected through large French doors and expensive bay windows, where it reflected from every metallic and marble surface, and Lotor struggled to make sense of some of the machines, which lined the countertops with more worth than his entire outfit.

There was a faint smell of freshly baked bread, along with something sweet like honey, and Lotor took a tentative step inside the kitchen with a trembling smile, as he wrapped his arms about his torso and looked around with covert glances. A phone was mounted high on the kitchen wall, but the wire was visibly cut and it was made useless as a result. There were bars over the windows and doors, which bore old-fashioned locks that required large keys, and Lotor noticed that trees and hedges lined the garden perimeter. No one could see inside.

Sendak closed the basement door. He locked it closed, while he guided Lotor through an archway into a open lounge just off from the kitchen, where – with a sigh of relief – he saw a large cot underneath an open barred window, and inside Throk used the bars to stand to his feet and babbled with the pointless chatter of an infant. Lotor smiled and stepped forward, until a cold hand clamped itself on his shoulder and kept him locked in place. Sendak snarled:

“You will not be allowed clothes up here.”

A cold wave of dread washed through Lotor. It chilled him to his bones, as he instinctively clenched his anal muscles and brought his hands behind him, and – as tears pricked his eyes – he struggled to feign aroused interest, even as he swayed where he stood . . . lightheaded, weak, vulnerable . . . a part of him prayed the move upstairs would mark him as an equal, but instead he was still viewed as mere meat to be pounded when the whim struck.

Lotor slowly undid the buttons to his shirt, while he slid it slowly and seductively from his shoulders, with a well-practised talent . . . _slow at first, pause in places, tease with the temptation of what awaited_. . . he licked at his lips, even as his heart raced in his chest, and worked on his trousers with a trembling hand. Sendak hummed in contentment, before he slunk away to the sofa and sat down. He parted his legs and patted his thigh. Lotor smirked and dropped his trousers, where he then sauntered between his legs and whispered:

“Will this make you happy?”

“It will reduce your chances of escape,” laughed Sendak. “If you somehow manage to find a way out of this locked house, you would be completely deprived of clothes . . . even if you knew the neighbourhood well enough to wander, even if you were comfortable running to a neighbour or trying to attract attention at a window . . . you will be naked. _Exposed_.”

“You don’t want other people to look at me?” Lotor ran a hand slowly down his stomach. “I would tempt so many men and women, while you always did crave watching me taken by Keith, and surely every man fantasises about being taken by the delivery man?”

“Hmm, that would be a beautiful sight. I would like that.”

Lotor sank to his knees, as he ran his hands over thick thighs. He remembered once being bounced on his father’s knee, sometimes bent over for a spanking when bad, but now every touch from a man brought new associations . . . tears pricked at his eyes, as he struggled to remember what paternal love felt like in his heart, along with platonic touches and kind words without expectations. Every day made him want to weep. Lotor asked:

“May I sleep in your bed, too?”

Sendak groaned. Lotor’s hands were already massaging the growing bulge beneath thick denim, as he ground down with the palm of his hand in slow circles, while slowly . . . _slowly_ . . . moving his head closer and closer, until he could take the zipper in his teeth and drag in downward. He kept his eyes upward and locked on Sendak. It took only an expert flick of the button to free the impressive erection, one short in length and thick in girth, and Lotor bent low enough to allow his warm breath to moisten the throbbing vein beneath.

“Hmm,” said Sendak. “It _would_ make fucking you more convenient.”

Sendak ran a hand through his hair. A tear fell over Lotor’s cheek, even as he feigned a smile, as memories flooded his mind of the last time he sat in a lounge . . . _fingers running through his hair, soft songs hummed as the television played, whispered stories from his father and soft laughter from his mother, sleep washing over him_. . . it was difficult to envision a life like the one he lost. Lotor licked the tip of the cock, tasting the familiar pre-come that wept from the slit and ran over the rare bald piece of skin. Sendak moaned.

Throk gurgled and giggled from his crib, oblivious to what happened a few feet away from him in the same room, and Lotor cast his eye quickly about the lounge, where he spotted a blanket over an armchair should he need to be covered. If he failed an escape, it could be the last opportunity he ever had to make it out alive. Lotor drew in a deep and shaky breath, as he took the cock deep to the root and swallowed around the head. Sendak groaned out:

“You will sleep in my bed.”

* * *

Throk gurgled in his crib.

A homemade card sat on a shelf above him; the crib was placed in a small alcove, with fairy-lights around the plastered edge and a mobile just above, and Throk used the bars to pull himself upright with a loud laugh and a grand smile. The fur on his ears bristled, as his ears twitched with every grunt from Sendak. It brought bile to Lotor’s mouth. He turned his head on the pillow to watch as Throk played alone in the crib, while Sendak rutted above him.

He lay on the cool sheets with legs spread, as he gripped his ankles and arched his back. The sounds from him were faked, as he let loose high-pitched whines and cries and occasionally writhed with feigned pleasure, and – with a whispered _‘Daddy, please’_ – Sendak roared out and thrust deep within him in earnest. There was no pain. Lotor long since kept his behind prepared and stretched every morning, just to make things easier for surprise attacks, and some seduction was all it took to convince Sendak to prepare him for foreplay . . .

. . . _‘please, it turns me on’ . . . ‘I love your fingers inside me’ . . ._

Lotor let a tear roll down his cheeks. He loathed most the inadvertent pleasure . . . every stroke against his prostate brought more and more arousal, until his rapidly developing cock stood erect and the weeping head would touch his belly-button. It was worse than the rape, as it left him feeling liked he deserved it . . . wanted it . . . _‘you fucking slut, look how hot you are’ . . . ‘you want this, don’t you?’_. . . Lotor would scrub his skin until it grew just the right shade of red, enough to hurt and yet not enough to anger Sendak. He would feel cleansed . . .

. . . _‘I want to make you feel good, Daddy’ . . . ‘I want to taste your cock’ . . ._

It would only take a few licks to make Sendak come. If he were lucky, Sendak would be sated with that and would not demand more, but tonight . . . Lotor wrapped his hands around Sendak’s neck and gripped at his fur, while he let out a continuous mantra of ‘ _uh’_ , and rolled his hips up to meet Sendak. Lotor swallowed back his shame, as Throk watched with wide and curious eyes that struggled to comprehend what he saw behind his bars, but Lotor _knew_ what was happening and he _knew_ no child should see such a sin. He choked on his bile.

The pleasure and humiliation mingled together, while Sendak licked and lapped at his neck with no concern about what Throk saw, and Lotor held back tears at the realisation one day he would be replaced by Throk . . . _Throk in their bed, Throk screaming in pain, Throk afraid to sleep lest some attack come_. . . a burning panic invaded his chest, as he panted for breath and he grew light-headed and weak with a rush of adrenaline. He gripped tighter.

Lotor realised he was crying once Sendak licked the tears from his cheeks. The laughter was sadistic and loud in his ears, while his body slowly worked itself up to a point of orgasm, and – biting his tongue until he tasted blood – his skin flushed a dark shade of purple and a terrible sweat broke over his flesh. He stuck to Sendak with the sweat. Each movement caused his skin to peak with wet sounds, while his eyes looked to Throk and he mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to the boy who would start to understand slowly over time.

“You always act so embarrassed,” muttered Sendak.

The pleasure grew, while Lotor screwed shut his eyes. He listened as Sendak grunted and pounded hard enough that his slapping balls echoed about the room, while Throk grumbled and grew discontent without being centre of attention, and – as Sendak forced his tongue into Lotor’s mouth – the familiar tingling sensation took over his stomach. Lotor felt his toes curl, as he let locked his legs around Sendak’s waist. Sendak asked in his ear:

“Does it turn you on to have him watch?”

Lotor mewled out in earnest. He pursed his swollen lips together, as he writhed and bucked where he lay, and sweat poured from Sendak onto his forehead. That open mouth let out a horrid stench of moist breath. Lotor listened as Throk groaned in a way that signified a full on tantrum, unable to go to his side and tend to him, and – filled with shame and mortification – the pleasure grew and grew until Lotor wanted to claw out his own heart with a pained scream. He gripped hard as the world went white. Ropes of come shot over his stomach.

He wept as he came.

* * *

_‘Throk, I’m going to get us out of here.’_

_A small gurgle and laugh._

_‘Tomorrow he will be at work all day,’ whispered Lotor. ‘He will go back to work at one o’clock, but we need to wait until two o’clock to be sure he is in his office. It will take him an hour to get back if the house alarm goes off. It will take the police twenty-minutes to get here should we make it to a phone first. We just need to get outside.’_

_Throk muttered ‘da, da, da’ and clapped his hands._

_‘The bathroom window lacks bars, but it’s rather small. I might need to leave you alone for a while, okay? The fall is too big for a baby. Plus, there is no way I can squeeze out without getting cut a lot, and – and – and I’ll be naked, too, so it’s not safe for you.’_

_A bubble of saliva popped with a squeal._

_‘I’ll save you, I promise.’_

* * *

“People have noticed my love-bite.”

Lotor smiled with his back turned to Sendak. He said nothing in response, even as he flipped over the pages of the cookery book and _very_ carefully continued to fry the bacon, and – every time the oil fizzled and sizzled – he would swear and jump back with wide eyes. It was difficult to learn how to cook; books were his only resource, along with trial-and-error, but being forced into constant nudity only made injuries and burns more common.

A bottle of milk warmed in a boiling saucepan, as Sendak attempted to make a toasted bacon sandwich for their breakfast, and already the scent of toasting bread and frying bacon drifted through the air, which brought loud claps and laughs from Throk . . . ‘ _food, please!_ ’, _‘hungry, dada!’_. . . a small bowl of freshly cut fruit pieces sat ready to be served. Throk would always leave the orange slices until last, where he would drain them of juice almost like a vampire, before he would spit them out and say ‘away’ with a large grin. Lotor smirked.

Sendak appeared to relish these ‘family breakfasts’. He came behind Lotor, also naked, and wrapped his arms around the twelve-year old frame, while he buried his face into Lotor’s neck and caused a fake giggle to escape Lotor’s lips, as he buried a hand into soft fur. It was so easy to play the part of a doting spouse, and lately – _every day_ – Sendak talked about just ‘finding’ Lotor once he turned eighteen and introducing him to the world as his fiancé.

“Good,” chirped Lotor. “I want the world to know you belong to _me_.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sendak nibbled his neck. “I am yours, am I?”

“I hope so.” Lotor moaned and ground back. “Why can’t we get married? I want to be pregnant like Keith was pregnant, and Throk deserves a brother or sister, doesn’t he? We could walk them in the park and enrol them in art classes . . . I just -! I just don’t want a baby without being married first, you know? I want us to do this _right_.”

“I never thought – when I first brought you home – that you would be so traditional. It thrills me to my core that you would willingly bond yourself to me, and I cannot wait for you to turn eighteen so we can finally make this . . . _legitimate_. Do you love me, Lotor?”

“It’s been _five years_. Do you _really_ have to ask that?”

Lotor tweaked the flame down on the bacon. He turned off the grill for the toast, while carefully sliding around in Sendak’s arms and reaching up to toy with his fur, and he purposely pursed his lips and licked them much as Sendak often enjoyed. There were more ‘tests’ in these past few weeks . . . _doors left unlocked, mobile phones left in reach, visitors downstairs while Lotor waited upstairs_. . . Lotor had not yet failed a single test.

It was possible Sendak sought for a ‘consensual’ relationship, so – indeed – that they would eventually come forward with some bullshit story about where Lotor spent the past thirteen years once he turned eighteen, and maybe he hoped for a long honeymoon and an obedient spouse that would wait naked at the door with a home-cooked meal. It was almost enough to make Lotor laugh, as he clenched his cheeks to double-check that they were properly lubricated and stretched. The bathroom window was still his best escape route.

Lotor gently pushed Sendak, until he was walked backward to a chair. Sendak plopped down, all the while wearing a grand smirk and touching his love-bite with a blush, and Lotor – spinning around in a seductive manner – surreptitiously checked the blinds and curtains were opened, as he prayed a neighbour might somehow stop by to borrow some sugar. He let out a long groan, as he toyed with his nipples, but – from so many nights spent _screaming_ in ‘pleasure’ – he half-feared the walls were sound-proofed and insulated.

It took only a few seconds to naturally lubricate, as he worked his developing erection and nipples with years of experience, and climbed up onto Sendak’s lap, while awkwardly balancing with one hand on the kitchen table. The other hand parted his cheeks as he guided his hole onto the head of Sendak’s cock, before he slowly lowered his body to the hilt. It filled him and stretched him to the usual breaking point. He blinked back tears.

“Shit, Lotor,” whispered Sendak. “The food –”

“It will still be warm, but not burned.”

Lotor made sure not to look at Throk. Lotor made sure to mask his tears as those of pleasure, which required a simple smile and loud moans, and he paused to throw back his head onto Sendak’s shoulder, as rough and callused hands ran over his skin. He shuddered and swallowed back the sickness, while he thrashed from side to side and writhed like a bitch in heat, and . . . with most his moves learned from pornographic movies or Keith . . . he was always surprised that Sendak bought his obvious act. He cried out in mock ecstasy:

“ _Fuck me, Sendak_!”

* * *

“I’m sorry, Throk,” whispered Lotor.

He dropped Throk into his playpen; Throk cried out in fear of being left alone, while he toddled alongside the bars with tiny hands reaching up for Lotor, and they would clasp and unclasp in such a way that Lotor struggled to hold back his tears. It stung his eyes. Lotor fought to see through the tears and sweat, while his eyes grew unfocussed, and he could only kneel down to look at Throk with an intense scrutiny, desperate to memorise that face.

Lotor saw the movies and shows . . . _children like Throk went into care_. . . tears finally fell down Lotor’s cheeks and onto his lips, until he tasted nothing but salt and pain, and he reached out through the bars to touch that reaching hand, which grabbed his finger and held so tight that he feared it might even bruise. Throk was scared. Those big blue-grey eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and those chubby cheeks were darkened with an intense blush, while Throk slowly gave a shaking smile with hope that Lotor might stay with him.

“I need to get us help, baby,” whispered Lotor.

“Stay! Stay!” Throk begged: “Stay?”

“You don’t know how much it hurts inside. It’s my job to protect you, Throk, but if we _stay_ here then one day he’ll hurt you, too, and even if he doesn’t . . . I don’t want you raised by a man that left _scars_ all over my back! I don’t want to be scared you’ll scream out ‘I hate you’ when he says you can’t have a bike or something, in case he whips you bloody!”

Throk fell onto his buttocks. The soft squishy sound of a diaper creasing beneath his tiny jeans brought a smile to Lotor’s face, as he stroked a hand through long black hair, and he bit into his lip until he tasted blood as he gazed at the face of dawning comprehension. Throk may not have understood the exact words, but he _knew_ Lotor was about to leave him. He took in choked breaths and fisted his tiny hands, while he smacked at the bars and screamed ‘no, no, no’ over and over and over, until he swayed where he sat and turned pure red.

“Sendak should be at work now,” continued Lotor. “The nearest neighbour is a five-minute run on either side, but Mrs Banks has five children and elderly parents, which means _someone_ will definitely be home and – if not – they have a doggy-door that I can climb through. I know, because Sendak bitched when he escaped one day.”

“ _Stay! Stay! Stay! No go! Stay!”_

“Just remember that I’ll always love you, okay?”

Lotor blinked away tears, as he snatched a tiny sock from a tiny foot. He stashed it inside a part of the patchwork blanket to his side, where a small rip turned one patch into a pocket, and – as he wrapped it around his frame – stood up and turned his back on Throk. The screams started almost immediately; toys were thrown at his head, while Throk cried until his lungs gave out, and little fists smashed against every surface in reach.

A part of Lotor longed to stay with him. He chanced a glance to the clock, in desperate hopes there might still be time to play with Throk, but every second was a wasted opportunity to get to safety and call for help, and – as tears streamed down his face – he ran into the _en suite_ and climbed up onto the toilet. He wrapped the blanket around his hand; every beat of his heart smashed against his chest and pounded in his ears, while he grew light-headed and _prayed_ he was still small enough to climb through the frame. Lotor closed his eyes.

He summoned all his courage. Lotor wept and wept, as he punched at the window and listened to the loud smash . . . pieces fell both inside and out, while he quickly stabbed at the edges and worked his blanketed hand around the sides . . . he could cut his feet while climbing out, possibly his legs when he fell a whole story onto the ground beneath, but he wouldn’t suffer massive lacerations while climbing outside. He might be okay.

“Forgive me, Throk,” he whispered.

Lotor threw the blanket across the bottom of the frame. He used all his strength to pull himself up and over, and – as he dangled over the edge – panted for breath and struggled to hold back groans of fear, while he listened to Throk scream and weep. It was difficult to tell how much time passed. Every instinct told him to keep holding on, until he screwed shut his eyes and let out a low moan that turned into an outright scream, and finally . . . with a burst of adrenaline and vast hyperventilation . . . he dropped down.

 _The blanket came with him. The glass cut into his legs_.

He looked about the garden for the first time, while he struggled to stand through the shards of glass embedded into his lower legs, and dazedly stumbled as he clutched at the blanket and draped it around his shoulders, before he glanced across the vast expanse of garden to see a house exactly as seen from the windows. He laughed in relief, before he limped across the cold and wet grass while _screaming_ for attention . . . _‘help me’, ‘call the police’, ‘I’m here’_. . . a few lights flickered on from neighbouring homes, a few people came outside . . .

There were no fences between the houses. Lotor struggled to remember if that was always the case . . . _a gated community, a security guard, people on patrols . . ._ he ran so far that his feet struck on the wood of someone’s porch, while lights flashed from a patrol car. He screamed. _He screamed_. A door opened . . . a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes . . . Lotor ran into her arms, even as his blanket fell from his shoulders and exposed his scars.

“Call the police,” he begged. “Please, call the police!”

He wept until his tears turned to blood.

* * *

Lotor tried to stand, but a hand pushed him down. It was firm and strong, while the patchwork blanket around him barely kept his naked form hidden from sight, and – as he looked into strange and human eyes – a terrible wave of terror washed over him. The flashing lights behind the grown man cast strange shadows about his face. There were loud sirens, while people yelled and yellow tape was spread around the perimeter of the house.

The back of the ambulance was a cold and sterile white. The man in front of him wore a black uniform, so that Lotor could recognise him as a policeman and a good guy, but the hands on his shoulders were confining . . . claustrophobic . . . _out of the frying pan and into the fire_. . . there were no familiar faces around him, while he knew all too well what men wanted to do to him . . . would anyone protect him? He struggled to still his heart. It was bad enough to be owned by one man, but by many -? No, it was too unbearable.

Lotor let out a choked gasp. He darted his eyes about the huge lawn, far larger than he ever remembered his lawn at home, and he noted his parents were absent . . . were they alive or dead? Lotor took in heavy and fast breaths of air; the man stood in front of him, and then it happened . . . Sendak’s face superimposed on the policeman. . . Sendak’s smile and Sendak’s cologne and Sendak’s laughter . . . it was a living nightmare. Lotor fought for breath. He grew light-headed. The world closed around him, as tears streamed over his cheeks.

He ran. The blanket was clenched tight around him, as his twelve-year old feet raced across the lawn as fast as he could manage, and – _hyperventilating, heart racing, a cold sweat_ – he ran and ran until he slipped on the floor. There were people shouting around him. A handful of policemen circled around him . . . _tall, swarming, strangers_. . . they loomed over him, ready to pounce and hurt him. Lotor curled in on himself. He wept.

“Hey, give the kid some space!”

The crowd dispersed, leaving just one person a foot away from him. He looked up and rapidly blinked, but all he saw was a smile bright and sincere and with bright yellow eyes, and he half-recognised the species. . . Balmera . . . Lotor sniffed and sobbed, until he found the strength to sit cross-legged on the grass. The woman sat opposite him in the same position, without caring that her black suit would get dirty or stained. He smiled when she kept her distance and then his smile fell. The pain wouldn’t go away.

“Lotor, I’m here to protect you,” sang a soft voice.

This was a woman. He thought back to the television he was allowed to watch, as well as the textbooks he was allowed to read . . . he thought back to the abuse at the hands of Sendak, the forced sex with Keith, and how Shiro would often watch . . . Lotor glanced back to the various men around the lawn. There were policemen. There were detectives. There were men from the FBI. He saw women, too, but there were just so many men. Lotor slid closer to the woman and yet his eyes remained locked on the crowds. The woman said:

“No one will hurt you, I promise.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course,” said the woman. “My name is Shay. I work with social services. I know that you must be very scared, but I promise you that no one will ever hurt you again. You were asking about Throk, was that correct? I can tell you about him, if you like.”

Lotor looked back to her. He saw how she maintained eye-contact with him, while it only took a raise of a hand for her to keep the men at bay, and the flash of various cameras and lights never once gave her a harsh or cruel appearance. There was weight to her body, not like the muscled men, and she reminded him of mothers on the playground as a child, as well as relatives with half-remembered names. Lotor reached out to quickly poke her knee. Shay smiled and poked him back. He smiled in turn and pulled at the grass.

“Is Throk okay?” Lotor asked.

“Throk is okay, Lotor,” said Shay. “We have taken him to hospital. The doctors will make sure that he is healthy and happy, while we try to find his parents, and – if his parents are good people – we will send him to them. He will be happy with his family. If we that is not possible, we will find a family who needs a child. They will give him the love he deserves.”

“Do you know Sendak is his father?” Lotor winced. “There’s a half-Galra boy. I think his name is Keith, but . . . Galra go into puberty as soon as they have sex . . . Sendak paid for him to have Throk and Throk lived here. Don’t give him to Sendak, _please_!”

“I promise that Sendak will never see Throk again.”

There were tears in Shay’s eyes. Lotor reached out for her hands; they were soft and smooth in places, but rough and callused in others. He tried to be brave, as his lips trembled and his eyes watered in turn, and all around them the world spun onward, as he saw the outside of his prison for the first time in five years. The world looked the same, but the trees looked a little smaller and the people looked a little thinner, and he realised – as he had grown – the world had shrunk a little in turn. He gripped hard onto her hands and asked:

“Who will look after Throk?”

“That will depend,” said Shay. “Keith will be too young to be a father. We may try to find a home for them both, so they can be together, but it may also be better for them to live apart for a little while, too. I can only say one thing for certain, Lotor. I promise that wherever Throk lives, it will be with a family that will _never_ hurt him. I promise.”

“What about me?” Lotor asked. “I won’t be given back to Sendak, will I?”

“Never, Keith. _Never_. Sendak is a very bad man; what he did to you was very wrong, so wrong that he will spend a very long time in prison, and we will make sure that he never hurts you or touches you or sees you again. You are safe now, Lotor.”

Shay slid off her jacket. It was placed between them with no words, but – as he reached for it and paused – she nodded and whispered: _‘I just want you to feel warm’_. There was no seeming desire for a favour to be repaid, only an altruistic act that expected nothing in return, and he took it with a trembling hand and lightly wrapped it around his form. He still wrapped the blanket around himself afterwards, especially as the jacket only reached mid-thigh.

The sky was black above, but it almost glowed with all the light. He craned his neck upward as he tried to count the stars, while he half-remembered how his father would teach him how to find Daibazaal, and – in moment of distraction – Shay slowly stood to her feet and reached out a hand to him. He paused and thought about what to do next. It took a long few minutes before he found the courage to take her hand, but she never once wavered or moved or gave up in her wait, and he took her offer for help and stood with shaking feet.

“Will you come with me?”

“That depends,” said Lotor. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to go to hospital,” explained Shay. “I will introduce you to some nice people; they will make sure you are okay, but also take some evidence from your body. It sounds scary, but I promise that it’s very painless. They just need to take a few photographs, write a few words, and swab a few places. I’ll be there the whole time. Is that okay?”

“Where do I go after that?”

“You will stay in hospital for a few days.” Shay squeezed his hand. “I will be with you during the days, while a nurse will stay with you at night, and we’ll talk to you the whole time . . . you may get sick of talking to us after a while, so I apologise in advance. You get to have a hot bath and a nice meal and a long sleep, and then we’ll bring your parents over to visit, so that – when you’re all better – you can live with them. You’ll get to go home.”

The world stopped. Lotor turned with one hand around his blanket, while a female paramedic with a big smile stood between them and the ambulance with an outstretched hand, and soon the overwhelming reality struck him as he looked at each woman in turn. _They were telling the truth!_ Lotor let his lip tremble. He struggled to stand upright, as he thought back to his mother and father . . . _beautiful and handsome, full of laughter and smiles, always putting wrongs to right_. . . he turned to Shay and his eyes blurred. The tears threatened to spill.

He knew he would be unable to wait. He wanted his father to laugh and rustle his hair, while his mother slid him that perfectly made soup, and how father would joke that cookery was just chemistry with safer processes . . . _a warm bed, cuddles without expectations, friends his own age without dirty acts_. . . emotions flooded him. It broke like a dam. In a second, five years of agony fled him until he could feel nothing else except relief. _Relief_.

Lotor wept.

* * *

The light hurt.

It shone bright and fast, waking him from a deep sleep. He swore and threw his hands over his eyes, as he rammed his palms against his sockets to stop the bright after-images, until the pain finally stopped and he could drop his hands, as his eyes slowly adjusted. The hospital room was stark white and only made the light all the harsher, while the large windows only reflected back his pale and tired face. He rubbed away the sleep from his eyes.

The hospital room was filled with presents. Shay explained each and every one . . . _a stuffed toy from the nurses, drawings in crayon from Acxa, a robotic astronaut from his mother_. . . it filled his room with colour along one wall, but a part of him missed the crosswords and jigsaws and video games, as he missed occupying his brain and passing time. The creative aspects of play were a mystery to him. Lotor sat upright in the bed, as he leaned back against the many pillows that moulded themselves to his body, while he gave a loud yawn.

Shay stood by the door, with her folder in hand. Lotor rolled his eyes, as he was too used to professionals holding folders and paperwork, and – more often than not – they would scribble down words while he talked . . . _‘there are no secrets here, would you like to read what I’ve written?’_ . . . he still laughed to think of the horror on one psychiatrist’s face when he called their bluff and read the notes. They were as generic as to be expected. Shay chirped:

“Are you ready to see your parents, Lotor?”

The words took him by surprise. He listened to his heart pick up speed, while his mouth fell open and quick breaths escaped his lips, and he pulled the blankets up to his chin, as he looked down to the scratchy hospital gown. A fresh pair of pyjamas sat on the bedside table, gifted to him by his parents via Shay, and he reached out for them only to knock a full glass of water. Shay quickly grabbed the glass and handed him the pyjamas.

He looked down to the cowboy pattern and rolled his eyes, but – even as he pulled around the curtains to change – he smiled as they remembered how he loved cowboys, as well as thought about the things he would _need_ and not just _want_. Lotor quickly changed, even as his mind raced with thousands of thoughts and what-if scenarios. Every sense was heightened. He listened to every sound, while his hands trembled at every gesture, and – as he flung back the curtain – he sat crouched on the bed with tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

“I can really see them?”

A part of him wanted to run. He knew his body has changed . . . forced puberty, hair longer for the years, scars that scattered his back like a web . . . Lotor wondered whether they would have changed, too. Shay showed him pictures of his friends, along with the new house, and she even showed him some pictures of his parents, but . . . they were all old pictures, unlike those of everyone else, as if his parents sought to hide the reality from him. He perched on the edge of the bed, while he swung his legs and grasped the edge of the mattress.

“You can really see them,” promised Shay.

“I – I struggle to remember how they look.” Lotor blinked away tears. “Does that make me a bad person? I know the last thing I said to my father was ‘I hate you’, and I remember how the policeman said they were stopping the investigation . . . is my mother still a chemist? Is Kova still alive? Did they ever move to Daibazaal like they said?”

“You can ask them all those questions and more, Lotor.” Shay took his hand and squeezed. “I don’t want to make you any promises, but I will say that your parents want to take you home whenever you are ready to leave here, but you have _choices_ , Lotor.”

“Why – Why would I choose not to go home?”

He pulled back his hand. The clock on the wall ticked ever louder, while the bad hospital food lay half-eaten on the table across the bed, and he realised that the world went on without him, enough that he could barely recognise certain names of authors or recognise any celebrity who hadn’t appeared on mainstream television. He looked to the door and _prayed_ his parents brought books with them, as he was too sick of television from five years of very little other than a large screen. Where were they? He wanted to see them!

“You have suffered a lot,” whispered Shay.

“I am still the same person, am I not?” Lotor sat straight and held his chin high. “I know that I went through a lot, but you all treat me like I’m a baby who will burst into tears at the slightest thing, but I survived . . . _I survived_. . . I lived through _hell_ and yet I survived! Did you survive anything like that? Did you endure what I endured? No. _No_!”

“Lotor, it’s okay to be angry. It’s simply that a lot has happened in the past five years, which means you – well – might not recognise your parents . . . you might not recognise your friends, or you might not like your new house . . . this is a _big_ transition.”

“Okay, so they moved house, huh?” Lotor shrugged. “Does that change them as people? I _lived_ in that fucking building for five years, while Sendak raped me nearly _every day_ , but I never _once_ considered it a fucking home! My home is not a bunch of bricks and mortar, but a place where I feel safe and secure and know I won’t be touched . . . I want to see my parents and I _deserve_ to see my parents, so – please – just let them in, okay? _Okay_? Good.”

Shay let loose a long sigh.

He folded his arms and feared she might refuse. A long few seconds passed, until she nodded to him and walked towards the door and slowly opened it wide, and – as he craned his neck to see behind the wood – he listened to her whisper a conversation with unseen people. The world stopped. Lotor heard only his beating heart and rushing blood, as a cold sweat broke over his skin, and everything moved in slow-motion as Shay came back inside. He watched as a man and woman entered the room. He recognised the man at once.

 _Zarkon_! He was dressed in formalwear, also traditional to their people, but it did very little to hide the deep lines about his face and the many wrinkles, and there were great bags under his eyes that spoke of sleeplessness and a lack of ill health. Zarkon let out a staggered breath, as he dropped a large gift bag to the ground alongside a small suitcase. Lotor noticed that his hands shivered, while his lips trembled, and he reached out with a shaking hand.

“Lotor?” Zarkon wept. “My son?”

Zarkon made to run to his side, but Shay quickly shot out a hand and shook her head. He instead let out a long sigh and slowly walked to the chair beside the bed, even as Lotor stared with wide eyes and an awe-filled smile, and sat down with a hiss of pain and very awkward movements, as if his limbs were a pain to bend. Lotor missed the healthy and physical father from his childhood, but he was just so relieved to have back his support system. Zarkon was his rock . . . his _hero_. . . Lotor sniffed and wiped at his eyes. He scooted closer.

“We – We brought you a card,” said Zarkon.

“A card?” Lotor asked.

“It’s from your friends: Zethrid, Ezor, and Acxa.” Zarkon gave a trembling smile. “Acxa delivered us a birthday card for you every year. They never lost faith in you. Even when I feared the worst, they still believed you were alive . . . I promised them that I would deliver you this ‘get well soon’ card. It has a picture of Kova, who is excited to see you again.”

The card was handed to him with a tremor. A photograph of Kova littered the front, which brought a loud cry of relief to his lips, while – with a loud sob – he clutched the card to his chest and screwed shut his eyes. He opened his eyes to see the woman beside Shay with hands clasped before her face, as tears strolled down her cheeks, while his father appeared to shift from side to side in a frantic attempt to refrain from reaching out to him, and Lotor could only sniff and wipe at his nose with his sleeve. Zarkon asked in a whisper:

“May I hug you, Lotor?”

“Sure, I guess,” muttered Lotor.

Zarkon practically threw himself at Lotor. Two strong arms wrapped around him, tight enough to leave him feeling a little claustrophobic and afraid, and images of Sendak jumped into his mind _. . . held down, tied up, pain inside_. . . Lotor screwed shut his eyes and panted for breath, while he fought to remind himself that he was safe. The hug was everything he wanted. It was proof Zarkon didn’t hate him, but proof that he could also be redeemed. Lotor finally threw his arms around Zarkon and gripped tight onto his cape.

He caught the familiar smell of cologne, which was the same so many years later, and despite being such a small thing . . . he broke down into tears. Zarkon ran his hands through his hair, while they remain locked together for so many minutes that Lotor lost count, and – finally – Lotor pulled back with broken laughter and wiped at his eyes with a smile. Zarkon laughed in turn, as he ruffled Lotor’s hair and sat back into his chair. Lotor asked:

“Can I get a hug from Mom, too?”

“Of course,” said Zarkon.

Lotor beamed with a bright smile. He swung his legs and stared hard at the door, until the woman beside Shay practically ran at him, and – with eyes wide in horror – he scrambled across the bed and plopped down on the floor so hide from the woman. He gripped hard at the edge of the bed, as he used it as a barrier between them. Lotor grew weak. The white-haired woman looked deathly thin with deeply etched lines on her face, while a black hood was lifted to cast her purple skin in deathly dark shadows. Lotor gasped out:

“No, I want a hug from my mom.”

“It’s me, my love,” said the woman. “I’m here.”

Lotor snatched at his pillow. He threw it across the room towards her, where it smacked her hard and knocked her back a step, and – head light and dizzy – he slid underneath the bed and ran to Zarkon, where he climbed onto his lap and wrapped his arms around him. Lotor held so tight that Zarkon choked for breath, and was forced to pat his back in a firm manner to get him to loosen his hold . . . _pain and betrayal_. . . Lotor held ever tighter, as his heart raced and tears formed in his eyes until they stung and ached. He screamed out:

“No, I want my mom!”

“Sweetie, it’s me. I am your mother. I –”

“No,” screamed Lotor. “You look like a witch! My mother was pretty and kind and wore nice clothes and smiled! You – You – You’re just some old hag and I want my mother. _I want my mother_! Where is she, Dad? Where is Mom? Why can’t I see my Mom?”

The woman let out a loud cry. He could not find the courage to look at her, even as his father held him tight and patted his back as if he were still a child, and he wondered vaguely whether he was too big to sit on his father’s lap . . . his mother used to tell him what was appropriate, his mother used to answer his questions . . . where was she now? Shay let out a long sigh and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Lotor shivered and shook. Shay said:

“Maybe we should step outside?”

He listened as the woman cried, as if he hurt her feelings even as she hurt him, but soon the door opened and closed and he heard the woman wailing outside as Shay muttered strange words of condolences, and all he could think about was his mother. Zarkon patted his back and hugged him close, while humming an old tune that his mother once sang. There were no touches or kisses like with Sendak. There was just a comforting hug, as Lotor’s heart broke and every ounce of pain left his body in one foul blow. He clung ever tighter.

“I want my mom,” wept Lotor.

* * *

It was a different bedroom.

Lotor frowned to see the decor; the border was plastered with astronauts, while the lower half of the wall was painted with cowboys and horses, and the upper part of the walls – just above the babyish border – was a dark blue with glow-in-the-dark stars. There were hammocks above the head of the bed, which was filled with soft toys and teddy bears, and large toy-boxes covered with images of clowns that contained dozens of various board games.

He looked down to a play-mat that was designed like a town, with various toy cars over its surface, while the open closet appeared to contain clothes designed for someone half his age, so that he was forced to fight the urge to curl his lip. _This was not his home_. It was almost an exact replica for the bedroom he left as a child, down to the very last detail, but he was five years older now and a part of him _almost_ missed the bare white walls of the basement. He struggled to feel safe when photo-collages adorned the door with his child’s face.

Lotor looked back through the open door. Honerva and Zarkon stood embracing one another, as they watched him with wide eyes and partly opened mouth, as if they stood on tenterhooks about his potential reaction, and he noticed a pair of four-wheeled skates beside them, adorned with a large bow and beside a toy robot from the latest commercial. Lotor closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. It took all his strength to feign a smile and chirp out:

“I love it,” said Lotor. “Thank you, Father . . . . Mother.”

He continued to smile, even as they ran toward him. Zarkon wrapped his arms around Lotor, while Honerva kept a slight distance with a nervous smile, and yet he noticed how her hands hovered just a few inches above his skin, even as they trembled with the urge to hold him and kiss him and weep about his final return. Lotor sighed and reached to her. Honerva took the hint. Another pair of arms were flung around him, as she wept against his long hair and pressed chaste kisses to his head, and he smiled to realise a part of his mother was still there.

* * *

Lotor woke with a scream.

He flung his body upright, as he clenched at the sheets . . . _cold basement, naked skin, body over him . . ._ cold panic and terror overcame him, as he punched and slapped and struck at the body over him. He bit. He spat. _No, I will not be taken again_! Lotor fought to breathe. Every breath burned his lungs, while a part of him saw Throk on the opposite side of the room, as instinct overrode reason and he screamed ever louder. _Not Throk! You promised!_

A woman’s voice echoed about the room. Lotor focussed his eyes and slowed his breath, as he frantically looked around and grasped onto a pair of soft arms, and – feeling bone beneath frail skin – he rapidly blinked and swallowed hard. The room came into focus. The body above him was that of a woman with tears in her eyes . . . an eye was blacked, cuts ran down her upper calm, and bruises marked her neck . . . Lotor opened his eyes wide in terrible comprehension. _He hurt her. He hurt Honerva!_ Lotor collapsed back onto the bed.

It was uncomfortable. The sheets clung to his skin with sweat and tears, while he ran his hands over his face with a long and shuddered sigh, until – with a hummed song from his youth – Honerva reached out to mop his brow with a wet cloth. He noticed a bowl of ice beside the bed, while Zarkon stood in the doorway with tears streaming over his face . . . _‘he mistook you for Sendak; next time, allow me to deal with him’_. . . Honerva whispered:

“Did you have a bad dream, my prince?”

Lotor nodded, as she gently cleaned his face. The sheets were soon removed, while Zarkon handed her a fresh set, and they were replaced around him, with only the occasional lifting of his body to aid in spreading them across the mattress. He allowed her to change him in turn, so the sweat-soaked pyjamas ceased to make him feel dirty and used, while a warm duvet was brought up to his chin and he was ‘tucked in’ with some song about a cosy caterpillar, which made him smile despite his situation. He said in a quiet voice:

“I dreamt Throk was given to Sendak.”

Honerva fell silent. Zarkon entered the bedroom and took a seat beside the bed, where he comically dominated the room on the stool designed for a younger child, and – reaching for a book – he flicked through and appeared to seek for one to read. It would have been enough for Lotor to throw harsh criticism at him, but he remembered . . . _he remembered how Zarkon always read to him after bad dreams_ . . . Lotor sniffed and rolled onto his side. He grabbed a book aimed at teenagers, as opposed to the picture book, and handed it to him.

Zarkon blushed and apologised. He slid the picture book back, while he opened the novella to the front page and frowned to see the book appeared to be about living dummies, before he gave a quizzical look to Lotor as if to say: ‘ _this_ will help you sleep?’ There was a small laugh that escaped Lotor’s lips, as he rolled onto his back and watched as Honerva sat on the edge of the bed, where she stroked at his hair. He chanced again with a firmer voice:

“What happened to Throk?”

“He is biologically the child of Keith and Sendak,” said Honerva. “There was enough video and DNA evidence to expose an entire child abuse ring, Lotor. It meant that a lot of people who _would_ have raised Throk were arrested; I believe that they were reluctant to put Throk up for adoption, because they wanted for him to be raised together with Keith and Ren.”

“So who is looking after them? Will they know the truth?”

“I am told that Krolia is raising them.” Honerva placed a kiss to his forehead. “Krolia is Keith’s mother, so she is raising them as his brothers. I am told that she has moved them out of the city, with Throk and Ren doing very well, but Keith will require a lot of time with special doctors that can help heal his mind. We have found such doctors for you, too. I promise you that soon these nightmares will stop and you will feel safe.”

“I met Keith twice,” confessed Lotor. “The first time he was _so_ upset that he might hurt me, as if he didn’t even realise that there was anything wrong, and it was like – like – . . . it was like he was _brainwashed_. I actually thought _I_ was the abnormal one for a while. The second time he was pregnant and really fascinated by Throk, but too young to be a dad . . .”

“We just have to be glad it wasn’t you, Lotor.”

_A cold punch to the gut._

Lotor slowly looked to her face. He saw an innocent smile, as if she were truly happy that he were not subjected to such a pregnancy, but he only knew that he raised Throk for nearly _two years_ and would never see him again . . . he only knew that Keith would forever be physically changed by two underage pregnancies . . . he only knew how Keith was raised believing sex was good and normal and may be forever warped by that.

It brought bile to the back of his mouth. A tremble overtook his hands, as his heart sped up inside his chest, and he knew one thing for certain . . . _she would never understand_. . . tears boiled at the corners of his eyes, as a devastating loneliness overcame him. He choked for breath and laughed through his pain. Lotor glared hard at her, even as she continued to smile and prod at him like a doll, unaware of what horror he endured and what violations Keith experienced, as if one had it any better or worse than the other. He curled his lip.

“Leave,” spat Lotor.

“My love, what is wrong? Did I –?”

Lotor laughed, even as he threw a pillow toward her. It struck her upper arm, as she flinched and looked at Zarkon in absolute horror, and Zarkon – with a few shushes and smiled whispers – patted at Lotor’s hair and sat beside him, even as tears streamed down Lotor’s cheeks and he flushed a dark red with shame and fear and frustration. He hunched over and let out a blood-curdling scream. Honerva wept, with a hand brought to her mouth. He watched as she stood and stumbled backward. He panted for breath and cried out:

“Leave! Get out! I hate you!”

Honerva ran towards the door. He listened with a heavy heart as she cried just beyond, where she stood in the hallway with her cries falling lower and lower, as if she slumped down the wall and bawled into her hands, and – _hating himself_ – he realised he hurt the one woman who loved him beyond all others, as if he were the monster Sendak claimed. Zarkon gently held him with a long sigh, while Lotor let loose so many years of emotion and wept.

* * *

“Do you think therapy will fix everything?”

Lotor reclined in the passenger seat. The world blurred through the windows, reminding him of something greater than himself, and – with a smile – he found a perverse sense of pleasure in seeing the world denied to him for all those years. He wound down the window and let the wind blow through his hair, while he pushed a hand outside and let the stray autumn leave hit his pale flesh. Honerva continued to drive with a slow and steady speed.

He noticed the in-built GPS system. He noticed the tracking application on his phone. It was as if even the car were designed to keep traces on him, which was made even worse by the gated community and constant security cameras, and he looked to Honerva and saw the sheer worry etched onto her lined face. Lotor glanced back to his hands, ashamed of how he pushed her away and how her grief stole her youthful looks, and he swallowed hard and tilted his head against to let the breeze cool his flushed skin, as Honerva turned a corner.

“I think it will help,” confessed Honerva.

Lotor hummed and fiddled with the radio. A few familiar stations flickered into sound, while one for children made him pause with a smile, and – as Throk’s favourite nursery rhyme played – he let out a long sigh and turned the station to something more contemporary in nature. A song played that reminded him of his childhood . . . an upbeat tune, a niche band . . . he noticed that Honerva tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and smiled. He turned up the volume, as he hoped the small concession might help her to feel better. Lotor said:

“It won’t undo everything that happened to me.”

A tear ran down Honerva’s cheek. He waited until she pulled into a car park, where the screech of the handbrake brought a wince, and he gently reached out a trembling hand to her shoulder, where – with a flinch and wide eyes – she looked to him and opened her mouth wide with apparent shock. Lotor lowered his head with wet eyes. He wondered if he ruined his chance for a relationship with her, as he gently slid his hand away, but she shot out a hand and grasped with a firm and maternal affection. They held hands for a long few seconds.

“We will forge a brighter future together,” whispered Honerva.

* * *

Lotor sat on the porch.

There was a high fence around the garden. The main gate was padlocked shut, while the gated community was routinely patrolled by private security guards, and curtains always twitched any time a strange vehicle drove through the private road. He noticed the other teenagers in bright t-shirts and ripped jeans, while they congregated in small groups, and they would laugh and gossip and argue . . . each one a part of something larger than the individual.

He watched as they walked past his house. A few eyes caught the ‘Happy Thirteenth’ banner strewn across the front door, along with the dozens of balloons and streamers inside, and yet – despite the childish and cheerful music from inside – they must surely have noticed that the party inside contained only a handful of teenagers. Zethrid laughed loudly beside her father, while Ezor sought to coax Acxa into some party game, but they were the only life in an ocean of adults, as his party became an apparent attempt at social networking by overstuffed shirts.

One of the boys waved at him. Lotor waved back. They quickly left with a few serious frowns, each one nudging the other as they walked away, and Lotor slouched with his head hung low, as he kicked at the grass under his feet. The perfectly manicured lawn showed no signs of rough-housing or ball-playing, while the flowerbeds were so immaculately kept that not a single one was plucked just to say ‘I love you’, and he wondered whether they wanted a child and instead did not long for another adult to treat as an equal.

Kova prowled outside with a loud purr, as Lotor smiled and stroked his fur. The mangy cat reminded him of Narti, whose funeral he had missed and whose face he could barely envision, and Lotor noticed some icing on his whiskers from the cowboy cake. Lotor winced. There were even pieces of a shredded astronaut napkin in his claws, as if Kova loathed the party just as much as Lotor. He smiled and helped tidy the cat, until a voice called out:

“Are you not enjoying your party?”

Lotor threw back his head. He looked up at an upside-down face. Lotor sighed and sat properly again, even as Zarkon sat beside him with a hand on his shoulder, and he strove not to look at that face riddled with dark and deep lines of age, as well as a mouth that seemed perpetually downturned and eyes that were always half-lidded. The hand on his shoulder was cold and callused, even as the squeeze strove to be paternal and patient.

Zarkon let out a hum of disapproval, before he reached into a back pocket. Lotor said nothing, even as a small plastic lion was placed on his other side, and he did not need to look to know it was the same design of the Paladins of old, those who saved their universe from intergalactic war. He once wanted to be a Paladin. He would sigh at their planet ravaged by civil war, while dreaming of piloting a lion of legend and saving his people, but now it stood as a symbol of foolish sentiment. A part of him wanted to smash it into pieces.

“You threw me a party as if I were a seven-year old,” said Lotor. “You do recognise that clowns and magicians are babyish, correct?  I may have been taken as a child, but I wasn’t frozen in time as a child . . . your memory of me may have been stilted, but I continued to develop and grow and mature, and – in all honesty – I fear I have outgrown your memory.”

“I thought you would long for the childhood you missed,” whispered Zarkon.

“Yes, which is why you have moved me into this perfect dollhouse? We have a garden designed for show, with a gardener to keep every blade in perfect check, and an interior that looks ripped from the pages of a show-home magazine. Where is the life?”

Lotor took the lion into his hands. It was an expensive model, apparently designed for decoration due to its statuesque form with a lack of mobility, and – once again – it seemed Zarkon was confused about whether to cater to the boy or the man. He turned it upside-down to see ‘Lotor, 13’ was etched onto its front paw. Lotor looked into the distance for the earlier group of teenagers . . . _mobile phones, fizzy drinks, shopping bags_. . . he smiled at how they must wander the malls and share in the latest technology. They were free.

“You have to let me hang out,” said Lotor.

He slid the lion back into Zarkon’s hands; Zarkon took it with a broken laugh, before he ran a hand over his face and a wave of guilt smashed through Lotor, enough that he climbed to his feet and let Zarkon’s hand fall from his shoulder until it fell limply onto the porch. Lotor jumped down onto the lawn, where he purposely kicked at the grass until the brown dirt shone through and made it feel _– finally_ – more real. Zarkon muttered:

“We have signed you to extra-curricular classes.”

“Yes, ones _you_ supervise,” spat Lotor.

“You do not realise how dangerous a world this can prove.” Zarkon winced. “I have triple-checked all your activity leaders, including using a private investigator to make certain, but it is all too easy to fall prey to bad elements. That man . . . _that man_. . . was one of my generals and supported me through the civil war and my exile here. If he . . . If he could . . .”

“I am taking every self-defence course you could find! I am in the gym every day. I have martial arts classes. I have weapons classes. Do you really expect me to live my life in fear of the next potential attack? That is no life, Father. I may as well have died that night.”

“Do not say things like that, Lotor,” begged Zarkon.

“Why not? Am I alive now? Imprisoned in my own house . . .”

Zarkon said nothing. He climbed to his feet, even as he groaned with arthritic pain, and gripped at the banister to support his weight, while he cricked his neck and cast his gaze back into the lobby, where Honerva stood illuminated by the hall light above. The two shared a long look, even as Lotor scoffed and kicked hard enough at the lawn to leave a visible hole. A clump of dirt shot across the lawn, where it landed like a stain on the green grass, and Zarkon moaned low in his throat, until he drew in a deep breath to mutter out:

“Come inside when you are ready.”

Lotor watched as Zarkon went inside, where he hugged Honerva with a long embrace. He rolled his eyes and attempted to kick the hole even larger, while Kova jumped up onto the banister and mewled out a protest, and – reaching out to stroke her fur – he stayed outside even as the music changed and people left, until there was nothing but the low hums from stragglers and loud cheers from those who staggered to their cars.

He watched the sunset with a smile.

* * *

“What have you brought with you today, Lotor?”

Lotor sat cross-legged on the chair. It was comfortable and soft leather, while Honerva and Zarkon sat on either side of him with warm smiles, and Zarkon would squeeze his shoulder while Honerva would stroke at his hair with a smile. The three of them sat together, while the therapist opposite sat with her ankles crossed and a large clipboard on her lap, and she bore a smile that brought a flush to Lotor’s cheeks, as he looked down at the white cotton in his hands and fidgeted with an awkward attention to the material. He shrugged.

“It’s a sock,” muttered Lotor.

“Could you explain what that sock means to you?”

The room was rather warm. Lotor glanced to the open windows, which revealed a beautiful garden just beyond, and – with a smile – he saw a small group of children playing with a therapist that appeared to be teaching them social skills . . . _‘make eye contact’, ‘ask for your turn’, ‘remember to say “please”’_. . . Lotor let out a long sigh. He smoothed the sock on his lap, while he smiled at the thought of the newborn baby smell and the sleepless nights, and a part of him realised that his mother must have adored him in that same manner. He said:

“It used to belong to Throk.”

“Why did you keep the sock, Lotor?”

“Well, it was when I made my escape.” Lotor winced and shrugged. “I knew there was a chance I might never see Throk again, but I couldn’t carry anything without pockets, so I made a sort of pocket in the blanket . . . it was a patchwork quilt, so I undid the stitching on one side of a patch. I hid the sock in there. The last thing I remember was him screaming, because he didn’t want me to leave, and I was _so guilty_ over leaving him, too!

“I guess it reminds me to be brave. I know sometimes we have to suffer to make good things happen, just like how Throk had to be alone in order to be saved, and I also see how my parents suffered a lot while I was gone, but . . . I came back. It’s literally the only thing I have from those five years, and I know I’ve been pretty mean to my mom since I was back . . .”

“I understand, Lotor,” whispered Honerva.

“No, you _don’t_.” Lotor sighed. “I want you to understand, though, but that means being open and honest with you, and – and – and I’m glad for these solo sessions with my therapist, but I’m also glad for these family sessions, too, because I get to tell you that I’m sorry I was mean to you and I want to make things better. That’s why I brought this with me.”

Lotor carefully turned around, so that he faced Honerva. Zarkon placed hands on his shoulders, while he simply allowed his hands to rest there . . . _no massages, no expectations_. . . it was a reassuring gesture, although it did make Lotor tense. He held the sock in his hands tight enough that his knuckles turned white. It was his last reminder of Throk. It was his last reminder of the past. He flushed a dark shade of purple, before he shot out his hands towards Honerva and held the sock in trembling hands.

“I want you to have it,” said Lotor.

Honerva took the sock in hand; Lotor spun back around, as he brought his knees up to his chest and buried his face into his knees, and – with a long sigh – he tried not to listen as she openly wept and clasped the sock to her chest. He knew it was worthless, but to him it meant the entire world . . . he wanted to share his world with them. It only took a few seconds for her to react. Honerva threw her arms around him and grasped him tight, until his lip trembled and he sobbed in turn. Lotor hugged her back and wept against her, as she swore:

“I love you, my son.”

* * *

_‘I have lost my son and gained a stranger.’_

_Zarkon leaned against the kitchen sink. The windows revealed the back garden, where – in the distant gazebo – Lotor sat with Ezor with a vast amount of homework between them, and every so often Lotor would furrow his brow and Ezor would explain the missing link between the problem and the solution. It would take years for him to fully catch up, even with private tutors and extra study sessions, but he would surely graduate top of his class._

_It was almost impossible to tell how he once suffered; long locks blew wildly in the wind, while he smiled so brightly that it brought lines to his fourteen-year old eyes, and he wrote with the illegible speed of one whose hand could not keep up with their brain. He locked eyes with Ezor with complete confidence. He spoke with the grace of a prince. One day they would return to Daibazaal, where he would rule their people and take his rightful place as king, but until that day he enjoyed life as any other teenager in any other place. He was content._

_Lotor looked more and more like Honerva each and every day. He was mostly Altean in blood, with white locks and bright blue eyes, and only his purple skin betrayed his Galra heritage, but he also bore Honerva’s calculating intellect and vast observation. The slight knitting of his eyebrows when he grew confused was so much like her, down to the small blush that covered his cheeks when he pouted at any potential corrections._

_‘I fear I shall lose him forever,’ confessed Zarkon._

_Honerva came behind him, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. A press of her head in the crook of his neck made him smile, even as his lip trembled, and he reached behind him to stroke her hair, while she looked beyond the window to where Lotor continued to study, even if he checked his phone far more often than Zarkon would have approved. Honerva placed a kiss to his neck, while she hummed low and deep in her throat. They stood together for a few long seconds, as they watched their son beyond the glass, until she whispered:_

_‘Do not say such things.’_

_‘I used to think the worst thing was blaming myself,’ admitted Zarkon. ‘I would stay awake at night. I would cry in the shower. I spent weekends visiting every playground and sports arena and anywhere where someone might take a child, in case they were giving him a good life, and I fantasised how he would run into my arms . . . how I would save him . . ._

_‘I realise now the worst thing is that my son could blame me. I see it whenever he looks into my eyes, as if he cannot recognise the man that raised him and worshipped him, and perhaps he is right . . . I should have watched him, I should have never let him out of my sight! Do you know sometimes I will stroke his hair when he sleeps, just to reassure myself that he is still with us, and he so often wakes with abject fear in his eyes? He fears me.’_

_‘He has spent five years as the toy of a man.’ Honerva sniffed and swallowed her tears. ‘I cannot bring myself to think about what he endured, but such things leave deep scars. He associates physical association with oncoming rape and assault. These are associations that will take a lifetime to break, but it is not personal against you. He has developed them –’_

_‘ – as a coping mechanism to endure a dangerous environment.’_

_‘You must have noticed how he flirts when he is afraid. You must have noticed how he surrounds himself with female friends and shuns all men. He knows logically that you would never harm him, but in his heart the only men he remembers have caused him the worst kind of harm, and so this is a phobic response. It is a natural fear.’_

_Zarkon clenched his hands on the edge of the sink. He gritted his teeth as his knuckles turned white, while he struggled to breathe through his rage, and – with tears prickling at his eyes – he thought back to the medical reports, the police reports, the psychological reports . . . it was devastating to know how one man harmed his son so irrevocably, all the while he continued with his life in total ignorance and unable to help him. Zarkon gave a broken laugh, as a tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto the back of his hand._

_‘What if he never recovers?’ Zarkon asked. ‘What if I have lost him?’_

_Honerva gently pulled back, so that she could turn him around. He kept his head low, while his lower back pressed to the edge of the counter, and he raised his hands to cup her face and trace patterns with his thumb on her cheeks. There were tears on her skin, even as she sought to smile and hide her pain, and together – through faked facades – they strove to be strong for one another, even as they broke apart inside. Honerva placed her hands to his chest, while she struggled to find the strength to say the words aloud:_

_‘Then we must wait until we find him.’_

_‘This could have caused irrevocable trauma, maybe broken him until –’_

_‘He may never be the same again, this much is true.’ Honerva allowed a tear to fall. ‘Do you know that people on this planet have an art called_ kintsugi _? It is where a broken object is repaired and allowed for its cracks to show proud, as those cracks are a part of its history and authenticity, but the repairs allow for it to find new purpose. It is still the same object. It was still broken. It is still born anew with a greater beauty than before.’_

 _‘I know you are right, but a terrible part of me thinks it would have been better had he died, and then I_ hate _myself for thinking such a terrible thought,’ whispered Zarkon. ‘I know I would rather die than endure such humiliation and violation, but then I also know that I am beyond grateful to have him with us and that life without him would be unbearable.’_

 _‘We all cope with trauma differently. I know that the loss of our son has changed us beyond recognition . . . he thought me a witch, my love . . ._ a witch _. . . there is no right or wrong way to cope, but we must take hope in the resilience he has shown. He is stronger than us.’_

_‘He lived when I know I would not have survived.’_

_Lotor laughed outside. He was no longer the boy whose image was plastered onto lampposts and milk-boxes, just as he was no longer the victim locked away afraid of opening his eyes, and he was now a survivor . . . he endured the worst and now was striving for the best. Zarkon turned to see Lotor talking on his phone with a blush, while Ezor bit her tongue with a look of concentration, as she text some unseen person with a childlike grin. It would not be long before Lotor would develop crushes and romances, and the thought terrified Zarkon._

_The other boy . . . Keith Kogane . . . also forced into an early puberty, but forced to give birth to two children during his years under the thumb of the paedophile ring, and would Lotor be the next to fall with child as he explored his sexuality? Would he see sex as something trivial and meaningless, sleeping around with many men? Would he see sex as something shameful and fearful, never able to have a physical relationship with another?_

_Tears streamed down Zarkon’s cheeks, as he finally broke down. Honerva led him to the kitchen table, while she fussed about making hot drinks for the two of them, and – as she busied herself about the kitchen – Zarkon looked to the framed photographs on the wall. There were literacy and numeracy certificates, as Lotor strove to catch up on missed schoolwork, along with group photographs of him with his three friends at scouts, and report cards with A-grades in history to match what textbooks he was given in captivity._

_‘I am proud of him,’ wept Zarkon._

_Honerva placed a mug of coffee before him. He watched as she sat opposite with a mug in turn, as she wrapped her hands around the hot ceramic, and – outside – a loud cheer erupted from Ezor as she cried out: ‘Zethrid, over here’! They listened to booming laughter and muttered complaints, before books were opened and the three awaited their final friend to arrive, even as they studied with muttered complaints. Honerva smiled and tilted her head to listen to his voice, always able to be reassured with a single syllable._

_‘He will recover,’ swore Honerva._

_‘I just want to make things better for him.’ Zarkon swallowed back his tears. ‘I feel so helpless whenever I see him suffer, knowing that I am his father and it is my duty to protect him, and it breaks my heart not to be able to make it better. It was so easy when he was little.’_

_‘You forget the tantrums and nightmares, even back then.’_

_‘Perhaps I do. He was always so perfect to me.’_

_Zarkon took a sip and looked back to the photographs. The latest family portrait bore serious faces and aged bodies, but there was a sharpness and intellect in Lotor’s eyes that spoke of a man who would conquer the world, while always empathising with the pain of others and using that to make the world a better place for those that suffered. He would be anything he desired in life. He would gain the last laugh on his abuser, as he accomplished a life so enviable that all others would admire and desire what he possessed. Honerva promised:_

_‘He will get better with time and support, my love.’_

_‘I know,’ said Zarkon. ‘Our boy is strong . . .’_


	2. Chapter 2

“Cheer up, Lotor!”

Ezor slapped a hand on his back. The party raged around them, as the community rooms of the dormitory filled to the brim with various students, and the cacophony of sheer noise was enough to bring a dull ache to his ears.  It was difficult to concentrate; flashing lights sent harsh after-images burning into his retinas, while the music was loud enough that the bass could be felt through the floor, and alcohol flowed from cup to cup until it soaked into the carpets with a hideous stench all around. Lotor leaned back against the wall.

Zethrid stood centre of attention, still dressed in her football uniform, and Acxa dipped in and out only to provide the illusion of being ‘social’, even as she left with arms filled with snacks and equations written all over her forearm. The clock on the far wall ticked on and on and on, until the minute hand moved almost in time to the hour hand, and Lotor closed his eyes as he tried not to dwell on how long those ten minutes seemed spent in the company of others.

He glanced to his phone, which buzzed with the nightly eleven o’clock text. Lotor struggled to remember a single night where Zarkon did not check in with him, at least since university, and a missed text often led into a missed call and then a missed call to a friend and finally to a knock on his dormitory door. He took a photograph of himself with Ezor, as he lifted up a non-alcoholic beverage and frowned, and – as Ezor typed in ‘someone’s not having fun’ the message was soon sent and he could ‘relax’ once more. Lotor muttered out:

“I find these parties a tedious chore.”

“Uh-huh,” chirped Ezor. “Well, your pops told me that you need to get used to them! It won’t be long before you’ll be back on Daibazaal; it’s all diplomatic missions and ambassadorial balls and state dinners from there on out, so you may as well get used to phoney smiles and pats on the back and cheap alcohol. That’s what it means to be a prince.”

“If that is what it means to be a prince, I shall abdicate on the spot.” Lotor sighed and took a sip of his wine. “I am quite capable of feigning smiles and engaging in deep conversations, but I find it draining to be around those that lack any degree of honesty.”

“Ironic when you’re putting on the same mask, right?”

“Maybe I dislike seeing myself reflected back.”

Ezor rolled her eyes with a groan. He simply sipped at his cola and cast his eyes about the crowd, as he saw half-familiar faces and tried to make stories of their lives, and he smiled to see those that seemed equally as miserable to participate in such a social mess. It was difficult to recognise many faces, as strangers arrived from other dormitories and some from other colleges, but he recognised one face that he was sure must have been a case of mistaken identity. Lotor stepped forward and cocked his head to the side.

The young man was beyond handsome. It was clear he was a first-year, at least by his timid demeanour and folded arms, as if he were left alone by friends and cast to the wolves, and – not knowing a single soul – strove to emulate a confident façade and instead only appeared all the more vulnerable in the process. He styled his black hair into a mullet, which complemented his blue-grey eyes and pale skin. Lotor asked in a whisper:

“Who is that, Ezor?”

Lotor slid his drink into the hand of a passing woman, who – with a scoff – simply threw the can onto a nearby table and snapped about his rudeness, and Ezor could only laugh in response and throw her arms around his shoulders. The way she hung from him provided an ache to his upper back, but he ignored the pain to gaze at the young man . . . _short red jacket that exposed the skin-tight fabric around his abdomen, impossibly long legs clad in dark denim, and an otherworldly aspect that spoke of grace and confidence_. . . Ezor said:

“Huh? Oh, that’s Keith Kogane.”

A part of his heart stopped. It was as if a cold sweat broke over him, as flashbacks overwhelmed his mind and images of Keith balls deep inside him appeared before his vision, but – as he swallowed back the bile and screwed shut his eyes – he remembered that this man was just as much the victim of their youth. He was also different . . . _handsome, aloof . . . alone_. A burning curiosity fought with his arousal and horror. He licked his lips.

“Keith Kogane,” whispered Lotor.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t recognise him, right?” Ezor slid away from his shoulders. “I see him about in various classes, as he studies astrophysics and quantum mechanics and things I think most guys would struggle to spell, but like . . . he hates to be touched. He even has these fingerless gloves to reduce chances of skin-to-skin contact. It’s like a phobia.”

“A result of his trauma, I would imagine.”

“See, that’s the thing! He sleeps around like _crazy_. He actually propositioned me on one occasion, but never spoke to me again when I shot him down. It’s why he has this reputation as a promiscuous person, but I think he just doesn’t want to be alone.”

“I believed he is eighteen,” said Lotor. “It seems an awfully young age to be so jaded, as to think the only intimacy and cure for loneliness can come from sexual encounters. I imagine it also proves a self-fulfilling prophecy? The more the reputation persists, the more people use him only for sex, and . . . the lonelier he becomes. I wished more for him in life.”

Lotor bit into his lip until he tasted iron. He remembered too well the images of Keith, who – luckily – avoided his image being plastered all over the media . . . the last he heard was that his mother adopted Throk and Ren, so that they were not separated, and started a new life near the Garrison so that he could have the potential to start any career he chose. The trauma was heavy for Keith, but at least he had family and was saved at a far younger age.

He failed to realise his feet were moving . . . _step after step after step_. . . his eyes were locked onto Keith, as he relived the worst moments of his life and sparked with a hope that Keith could provide him with the promise of something better, as if his recovery might promise the potential of a recovery with Lotor. He stopped a few feet from Keith. The emotions mixed and mingled until the bad became synonymous with the good, and his heart raced into his chest until he could hear it over the music . . . _bang, bang, bang_. . .

It brought back memories of the way the headrest would sound against the wall, as well as the rhythmic pants of both Keith and Sendak, and there was a pain in his hands . . . blood welled as his nails dug into his palm . . . Lotor jerked them open. Keith locked eyes with him and smiled with a blush across his cheeks, before he pushed back a lock of black hair and licked at his lips with a familiar expression of ‘desire’, as words spilled like wine from his lips:

“Hey, you’re Lotor, right?”

 _Panic_. . . Keith looked like any other man, complete with the same strength and masculinity and confidence, and Lotor knew that he would crumble underneath him if they came head-to-head in a fight, but yet he also knew Keith would never harm him. Reason fought with emotion. Lotor panted for breath and feigned a smile, as he reminded himself of the potential for friendship and a companion that _truly_ understood his trauma, and yet he all civility was destroyed by the cold sweat that soaked his clothes to his skin. He stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” said Lotor. “I do not wish for a sexual encounter.”

The words spilled out beyond his control. Keith jerked back his head, as his lip curled and eyes watered, and – before Lotor could apologise – Keith threw his drink straight into Lotor’s face and marched away with a trembling lip. The cheap beer ran down Lotor’s cheeks and soaked into his hair, as he spluttered and coughed and turned to see Keith almost out of sight while people around them laughed, and he called out with a desperate hope:

“I was _going_ to say I do wish to get to know you.”

Keith stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around with a dark blush over his cheeks, as he cast his eyes up and down over Lotor and winced when the laughter grew louder, and – pushing his way through the crowd – he came to stand just before Lotor, while he fidgeted with his hands in front of his lap. Lotor simply forced a smile, as he counted his breaths and tried to control his breathing despite his encroaching sense of dread. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“Wait,” said Keith. “What?”

“I am what you might call demisexual,” said Lotor. “I did not want to start a friendship or platonic relationship with the wrong impression, especially as I hear you are a rather sexual being and might expect more than I can provide. I apologise for so rudely expressing my fear. Still, I believe you are potentially lonely and I will admit I lack many friends. I thought it would be nice to perhaps make friends with one that I remembered being so . . . sincere.”

“You got friends here, haven’t you?”

“I have Acxa, Zethrid, and Ezor.” Lotor smiled. “I was not aware there was a limit on how many friends one could obtain in life, Keith. Do you know why I am friends with these women? They do not put on acts. They do not tell lies. I see you and I am fascinated; I remember a boy that giggled and laughed and joked, but now -? Which one is real?”

“You mean to ask which one is the lie.”

“They cannot both be true, yes?”

“Why not?” Keith shrugged. “I can’t change who I was, not any more than who I am now, but all I know is people _do_ change . . . you know that better than anyone, right? I mean, I’ve got nothing against getting to know you, but do you _really_ want a reminder of the past hanging around you? I’m not the kid you knew, Lotor. You can’t fix me and I can’t fix you. I can’t be a good friend to you . . . I don’t really have any friends. I’m sorry.”

Lotor caught sight of a group of men. They would point and laugh and made crude gestures, and – any time Keith looked towards them – words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ would echo about, bringing stabs of pain to Lotor’s chest both in empathy and remembrance. It took only a few seconds for Keith to turn away with shoulders hunched and head low, and Lotor shot out his hand and grabbed for a thin wrist. He held tight and yanked Keith back. He may have made a hideous first impression, but he would not allow Keith to believe the worst. Lotor swore:

“I don’t expect anything from you other than coffee.”

“Yeah? Then what _after_ the coffee.”

One of the men walked past and groped at Keith’s buttock, as he laughed and whispered something rude into his ear, and – as Keith winced and clenched his fist – Lotor pre-empted any potential violence on his part with a swift kick to the man’s groin. The music stopped. A terrible silence descended across the party, as the man crumbled to the floor and retched with hands grasping his pained testicles, and only Zethrid stepping forward stopped his friends from attempting to start an outright fight. Lotor whispered into Keith’s ear:

“If I wanted to bed you, I’d just _ask_.”

Keith glanced down at the man whose eyes watered with tears. He curled his lip and kicked him hard in his stomach, as he spat out that he needed no one to fight his battles for him, and – as the man threw up over the carpet – Keith stormed across the room with the occupants parting before him like the seas before Moses. Lotor half-smirked in sheer awe, as Keith stopped at the doors and raised a hand to signal a ‘goodbye’ . . . he was a mystery.

“Fine,” said Keith. “Ten o’clock at _Altean Lights_.”

* * *

Keith appeared in the doorway to the popular café. A slight air of a hangover clung to every muscle of his frame, as he slouched and cricked his neck with a yawn, and visible black bags appeared under his bloodshot eyes even as he continued to rub at them. The traffic roared by outside on the busy main street, while a cool draught blew inside and caught at Lotor’s hair where he sat beside the windows. Lotor waved. Keith caught his gesture and trudged slowly towards the table, where he threw himself into a wooden seat with hands in his pockets.

The coffee-shop was one of the most popular in town, always filled with students with notebooks spread out over every surface and businessmen trying not to spill on expensive computers, and – while surprisingly quiet – no one ever paid mind to any other person, always fixated on coffee surprisingly low-priced for its high-quality. Lotor signalled to the waitress that his companion had arrived, as she responded with a wave in turn.

“I never thought I would see you again,” said Lotor.

The waitress – a friend of Zethrid named Romelle – rushed over with a deluxe latte, complete with soya cream piled on top with fancy patterns drawn in cocoa powder, and Keith blinked rapidly in astonishment that Lotor had remembered his lactose intolerance. Romelle giggled behind her hand, as she lifted her tray to her chest, and quickly ran back behind the counter while Keith took a cautious sip from his cup. He let out a loud ‘hmm’ and smiled, clearly taken by the taste that could compete with no other, and locked eyes with Lotor.

“It’s only been a day,” said Keith.

“You know what I meant,” chided Lotor. “I have spent a lifetime trying to overcome my trauma, but I have always wondered – in the back of my mind – whether you had overcame that same trauma or succumbed to its horrors. I never had any means to know.”

“I – I used to ask about you, but they told me it was better not to dwell in the past. I figured they were right, especially when I knew you’d be in social care at worst and at home at best, but I’ll admit it felt like we were . . . I don’t know . . . bonded in some way. You were the only one who _experienced_ that bullshit with me, and no one else understood.”

“Did you also get the clichéd platitudes?”

“Like, ‘it’ll all be okay’?” Keith asked. “Or ‘it’s over now’?”

“My favourite was always ‘don’t worry’,” laughed Lotor. “I wonder if they knew what it was like to live in constant fear, with the knowledge that we are so fragile and vulnerable as a life-form, and that they may as well have said ‘get over it’. My father still calls me every single day, just to make sure I have not gone from his life once more. It never ends.”

Keith laughed in turn, as he set down his cup. It took him a few seconds to fish out his phone from his pocket, which – curious to Lotor – appeared to be an old flip-phone with buttons, and he soon turned it around to reveal an inbox with ten new messages. A few scrolls showed that they were all from ‘Mom’ and all sent that same morning, and Lotor nearly choked on his coffee to realise they experienced the same over-protective parents. Keith put the phone away and nodded towards Lotor with a half-smile, as he teased in a firm voice:

“Did you call me here to bum me out?”

“I called you here for a friend,” confessed Lotor. “I fear no one understands me, and – while I do have a good therapist – it can help to have an unofficial support group. I sometimes feel like I raped you, as I participated in your trauma . . . I struggle to maintain friendships.”

“Why? Because of your guilt? I never blamed you, you know?”

“Why? I seduced you just to get things over with.”

Lotor lowered his face with a burning shame. He flushed a dark side of purple, as he pursed his lips and blinked away forming tears, and he remembered too well the second of their two times spent locked in forced intercourse . . . _desperate for the acts to end, teasing with all the flirtations learned, feigning pleasure even when violated afresh_. . . Lotor loosened his grip on the cup with a loud sigh, as he strove not to crack another piece of ceramic. Keith let his smile fall, even as it twitched with uncertainty, and he choked out:

“He made us do those things, not you.”

It was of little consolation. A part of Lotor wondered whether it could still be called ‘rape’ when he instigated so many acts just to win Sendak’s trust, and while others would easily call it ‘survival’ . . . he remembered too well the defending attorney’s words: _‘this is a young man that often seduced my client –’, ‘he confesses that he never said “no” when –’, ‘at no point did he fight back or resist –’_. Lotor struggled to hold back the bile and acid, as his stomach churned, and Keith interrupted his dark thoughts with a cleared throat sound.

“I don’t have any friends,” murmured Keith.

“Is that true?” Lotor rapidly blinked. “You are so handsome, as well as intelligent enough to have joined such a prestigious university, even if I imagine you chose it for its locality so as to remain close to your equally over-bearing parents. You also seem honest and forthright, which is a pleasing change from the false niceties of the masses.”

“You mean I’m a self-righteous dick, right?” Keith laughed and shrugged. “I guess I just struggle to get attached to people; no one wants to talk about their past, but when they hear mine they’re all just pity or those looks . . . you know the ones . . . ‘poor baby’.”

“I do despise those looks,” murmured Lotor.

“I had one boyfriend tell everyone, as if it was his secret to tell, and another broke up with me as I guess I was damaged goods or something. After a while, I just started sleeping around and never opening up, because what was the point? Only then . . . yeah . . .”

“It then reinforces their belief you are just an object to be claimed.” Lotor winced. “They no longer care for what is in your mind, which is a relief in that you no longer have to divulge your past, but a burden in that you now fear you will never obtain something meaningful, especially when you feel so alone. It is what I loathed most of all from this trauma.”

A car honked its horn outside, while one in front screeched its brakes and screamed a curse, and Lotor smiled to see rush hour in full swing, as he hoped to drift from his body and simply watch the world go by as if it were happening to someone else. He swirled the remains of his coffee, while Romelle quickly swept over with a new cup and took the old one, and he nearly laughed to realise how often he kept to the same routine, as well as the criticisms from his father _never_ to keep a predictable routine. Keith interrupted his thoughts with:

“You had the same thing?”

“Yes, but mine was on the opposite scale.”

There was a clatter of plates and cups from the counter, while a couple on a stolen gate giggled from a booth in a far corner, and every space was filled with the clatter of keys on the keyboards, and Lotor gnawed at the inside of his lip wile he fiddled with the complementary biscuit on the side of his cup. He struggled to control his racing heart, as he forced slow and deep breaths to fight back an oncoming panic attack. Lotor briefly closed his eyes.

“I still consider myself a virgin,” murmured Lotor.

It was Keith’s turn to choke on his drink. A spray of coffee nearly covered Lotor, were it not for a turn of his head last moment, and instead it trickled down the window as Keith choked and coughed and spluttered. Romelle huffed across the room, while Lotor quickly tried to wipe down the window and waited for Keith to regain control of his breathing process. Lotor screwed shut his eyes again, fearful of the inevitable mockery or chastisement that would follow, and yet Keith maintained a stoic façade even with a furrowed brow. Keith asked:

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” said Lotor. “It caused the same problems, however. I fear men on an instinctual level, only gravitating really to my father and to you when I saw you, but strangers cause me to hyperventilate and experience flashbacks. It is why my friends are solely women, but I did grow close to some men, albeit a rare few . . . they did _not_ care for my abstinence . . .”

“You never wanted to be physical with them?”

“Well, not after I learnt it was a deal-breaker.” Lotor shook his head with a half-smile. “If they care more about sex than me, how much did they care for me in the first place? It still hurt nonetheless. I do want physical intimacy, but . . . only with one I can trust.”

Keith nodded as if he understood. The simple truth was that some men would leave without sex, and others would leave once they obtained sex, but both had endured the struggle of their sexual natures and preferences being an obstacle for many to overcome. Lotor sipped at his coffee, while he broke apart his biscuit, and Keith – who blushed and fidgeted with his now half-empty coffee in turn – opened and closed his mouth as if in search of words. It was difficult to know how to react, until Keith blurted out at an incoherent speed:

“So – er – can I . . . buy you another coffee?”

Lotor jumped in his seat. It was the opposite of the rejection he expected, but instead an invitation so sincere and warm that he could not refuse even if he wanted, and – with tears forming in his eyes – he nodded slowly toward Keith and allowed a smile to grow over his lips. They sat in a warm and companionable silence, as both stared awkwardly into their drinks with blushes and smiles, and Lotor said in a quiet whisper:

“I hope this will be the first of many coffees.”

* * *

Lotor kept his head down.

It was quiet in the library, enough that he could hear every hiss of breath. Lotor struggled to remain calm, even as he reminded himself the essay was not due for some weeks, and yet – as he continually checked his phone for messages from Keith – he realised he would rather be anywhere else except hunched over a desk. The wind howled from outside, while the soft indoor lights constantly caught at the Christmas decorations, and it all provided a distraction.

He did not need another distraction. Lotor pinched the bridge of his nose, as he looked out over the balcony to the rows upon rows of bookcases below, and – as the clock ticked closer to midnight – he noticed only the librarian wandering about, as she made sure the books were in order and the shelves were dusted. The words of the books before him started to blur, while the charging wire from his laptop ran across the floor, so the three-percent would cease to provide an imminent threat. Lotor grew close to tears.

A loud cough came from beside him. Lotor looked up to see Keith dressed in his sleeping clothes, with baggy sweatpants and an old shirt visible beneath his jacket, and – with still mussed hair – he clearly had woken in the night and worried when he failed to find Lotor in his dormitory room. Keith slid into the chair opposite him, before he slid a takeaway mug of Altean coffee in front of Lotor. It released a perfect and delicious aroma.

“Here,” whispered Keith.

Lotor took a long few gulps, as Keith peered over at the books and papers. After so many months of daily conversations, the silences between them were natural and welcomed, allowing them to memorise every small expression and every little gesture. Keith leaned his head on his hand with a loud yawn, while he scratched at his neck and half-closed his eyes, and Lotor blushed to see him in such a vulnerable state. Lotor smiled.

He dreaded to think how he looked in turn, with pens holding up his hair into a messy bun and glasses low down on his nose, but – as he dared to glance up – he nearly fooled himself into thinking that he saw a licking of the lips and lowered his head with a blush. Lotor returned to highlighting his personal copy of his textbook, only to notice the entire page was a block of yellow and slammed the book shut with tears already forming, before he dropped his head onto the cover and let loose a low groan, and he wished he were back in bed.

“You look pretty stressed,” said Keith.

“I chose psychology to help others,” confessed Lotor. “I remember seeing my photograph in old newspapers or recent documentaries, but those eyes were the glassy and dead eyes of a trauma victim disconnected from reality! I see my pain and I struggle to relate. I feel that person is a victim and I stand here as a _survivor_ , and I want to understand my recovery.

“I want to better understand my journey and my trauma, because it is only by better understanding myself that I can continue to improve and grow, but it is also by understanding trauma in general that I can take other boys with the _same_ glassy eyes and make them feel a spark of hope when all hope runs dry. It just becomes overwhelming when I see _how much_ I must learn in order to become the best version of myself. What if I fail?”

“At least you tried,” said Keith with a wince.

“Do you ever feel simply trying is not enough? I sometimes fear I must be _better_ than everyone else, as if I must compensate for my status as ‘survivor’ and prove my worth, lest I always be known only as the man who was once taken and tortured. A part of me wants to be in a position where I can _never_ be victimised again, but the rest of me wants to somehow undo all the pain my father endured by making him proud and being the best.”

Lotor slumped back in his chair, as he ran his hands over his face. He stared up at the dreary beige ceiling, where he thought back vaguely to staring at the ceiling locked in his basement, and he allowed a tear to fall down his cheek with a broken smile. The coffee steamed before him, sending small clouds high into the air, and he thought back to the many breakfasts spent with Keith and dinners spent with his parents, and how the future seemed so bright until it finally hit him that the future was _now_. There was simply too much pressure.

“If I fail at being the best, it’s like I let Sendak win.” Lotor ran his hands over his face. “If I am anything less than the best, I will always wonder whether it’s my own inadequacy or my trauma that holds me back. I also feel I somehow must make things up to my father . . . I know what happened wasn’t my fault, but if I can just be the best student -!”

He slammed a hand onto the table. It let out a loud sound that caught the attention of the librarian, who – with a loud shush – turned upward to the balcony to warn him into silence. It took all his self-control not to wave at the absence of any other student so late at night, but he simply took a sip of his coffee instead and held back a muttered curse, even as Keith slid his chair ever closer and lazily flipped through the textbooks, and Lotor winced with guilt.

“I am sorry,” said Lotor.

“No, it’s fine,” said Keith. “I can get putting that pressure on yourself, you know? Just, don’t let it get to the point where it all boils up inside. It’ll build and build and build, until – one day – you’re just not yourself . . . you snap . . . that’s when Sendak and Shiro win.”

“Keith, did . . . did something happen?”

Keith pursed his lips together and brought his hands before him. It was a subtle gesture, but a serious marker of anxiety, as Lotor had noticed – in recent months – Keith would only retire into himself and break eye-contact when severely distressed. Keith had forgone his fingerless gloves, being that he clearly was dressed for bed, and so Lotor avoided holding his hand and instead reached out to squeeze his shoulder as he choked out in a low voice:

“I was expelled.”

The words hung heavy between them. Lotor squeezed a little tighter, as he brought his chair close enough to Keith that legs touched, and he lowered his head to process what had been spoken by his closest friend. Keith remained silent; Lotor blinked back tears and let out a shuddered breath, as he thought to how Keith so adored his education and lessons and work in the university, and here he was about to be excluded. It would bring back fears of his years in isolation, fears of rejection, and Lotor could only imagine its impact. Lotor whispered:

“What happened?”

“I’ve been a straight-A student,” mumbled Keith. “I felt guilty at times, because I see you struggling and I’ve just been _acing_ my first year with no effort, but then Iverson calls me into his office and I’m _freaking out_ because I remember being alone with men as a kid . . . I remember being alone with Matt, locked in a cubicle with Sendak, always alone -!

“I – I also think I remember Iverson from my youth, but it’s so much a blur and I can’t accuse someone without _knowing_ , can I? I don’t know . . . like I say, I was panicking, and he was trying to talk to me about my reputation for being promiscuous on campus.”

“Perhaps he was trying to provide advice to help you?”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Keith.

Keith reached for Lotor’s coffee and took a long gulp. It was impossible to chastise him, as the tremble to Keith’s hand betrayed his fear and anxiety even now he sat in safety beside his best friend, and Lotor knew too well the fear of other men . . . male teachers would always have a female aide when asking to speak to him alone, but no such provisions were in place for Keith whose anxiety fell short of an outright phobia. Lotor squeezed again and rested his head against Keith, as he waited for him to continue with his version of events.

“He said that I had _so much_ potential,” said Keith. “I thought he might proposition me at first for extra-credit, and – got to admit – I was tempted until I remembered what you said about unhealthy coping mechanisms, so I held back and reminded myself I didn’t _really_ want to fuck him, but just wanted to . . . feel wanted. I distracted myself with those thoughts. I snapped out of it when he said: ‘ _you could be just like Shiro if you applied yourself_ ’.”

“Oh my, I’m so sorry, Keith! I will make an official com-”

“I punched him in his fucking face.”

_Oh._

It would have been easy to make a complaint about Iverson. It likely would have ended in an official apology, as the old man likely forgot or was unaware of the trauma involved, and worst case would have been retraining or Keith being transferred into another class. Lotor winced when he remembered the zero-tolerance policy towards violence . . . _classes on sexual consent and ‘yes means yes’, talks on violence and managing one’s aggression, assemblies on the dangers of alcohol_. . . there was no coming back from a punch.

“He expelled me,” said Keith.

Lotor glanced to Keith’s hand. The knuckles were still red with blood and bruised beneath the dried and flaky bodily fluid, which made Lotor queasy to think how much damage may have been done, and he prayed this would end only in expulsion and not criminal charges. He reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief, before he dipped it into his bottle of water and gently tried to clean away the blood without directly touching the skin with his skin. It took a long few minutes to work away the worst, as he heaved a long sigh.

“I will fix this,” said Lotor.

“How can you fix my fucking life?”

“You never enjoyed science, Keith,” said Lotor. “You _always_ loved working with your hands, and you are a master mechanic to put to shame all others! Why not allow me to talk with your parents and with mine? My father would be willing to invest in a small loan to help you establish a mechanics’ business nearby, while there is a large demand for such services.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I remember you mentioned that Shiro owned a shack in the desert? It is _possible_ that was owned by your father or mother, which means it could be left to you, and it would work as a marvellous base of operation. You would control your entire career. You could say ‘no’ to any customers that offend you, control the level of work you take aboard . . .”

Keith relaxed for the first time since his arrival. Every muscle unclenched, while he sat back with parted lips and finally gave a warm smile, and he stared ahead as if already envisioning himself in a career that brought passion and not obligation. Lotor wiped away the blood at last, but he made a mental note to bring Keith to a doctor. The swelling indicated a sprain or break. He dreaded to think how Iverson made it out of such an altercation, while a part of him feared hearing sirens with every passing second. Keith asked in a low voice:

“Do you think that would work?”

Lotor slid the coffee into his hands; Keith took it and wrapped his fingers around the container, where the warmth provided further comfort, and he half-laughed and smiled all the more as he considered life with freedom. Lotor smiled in turn, as he put his handkerchief away and gently smoothed down Keith’s outer layers. It thrilled him to see Keith so content, enough that he blinked away tears and found his voice to say with warm words:

“I think you would be a grand success.”

* * *

The shack stood in perfect condition. It bore a porch and a small shed to the side, along with a tiny upstairs area that allowed one to camp out overnight, and – after a substantial amount of time bleaching the floor to help ease bad memories – it was almost like a whole new place, especially with new plastered and papered walls and changed windows and doors. Keith stood bare-chested outside; sweat dripped down toned and muscled flesh, while his hair lay slick to his skull, and his hover-bike took up a great deal of space off to the side.

Lotor smiled as Krolia and Zarkon spoke in the distance. The deeds to the shack were in Keith’s name, while already fliers littered the local towns and appointments filled a book just inside where people waited to be seen, and Zarkon had even completed his offer of help with a new house between the shack and university for them. Keith had refused, but Lotor had jumped at the offer. He was grateful to be out of the dorms. Lotor asked:

“Do you have all the equipment you need?”

Keith dropped a hammer to the floor, as he panted for breath and downed a bottle of water even as it spilled from the sides and poured over his chest, and Lotor swallowed hard to try and force back a stab of arousal at the sight. Lotor simply wished he could help more with the handy-work, but Krolia and Keith appeared to have expertise in everything from carpentry to decorating to plumbing. He could only watch as Keith spun around with hands on his hips and a bright smile plastered over his face, as he cocked his head to the side and laughed.

“Yeah, it’s absolutely perfect,” whispered Keith.

He walked over to Lotor. In the distance Krolia and Zarkon shook hands, while Zarkon drove off in a car more expensive than the average house in the neighbourhood, and Krolia trudged to her second-hand car with the plastic bag covering the broke window. It was clear that – without their help – such a small business would have been impossible. Keith bit into his lip and kicked at the ground, while he mumbled out in a quiet voice:

“What if I fail?”

“Then it is as you tell me,” said Lotor. “At least you _tried_.”

“I know, but your dad is putting his private money into this business.” Keith winced. “It’s not even like his _people’s_ money, but his _own_ money, and that’s a lot of pressure! I swear to you that I’ll pay him back every dime, but that only works if my business works and I’m not on some minimum wage job stuck paying him back into my fifties.”

“If it came to that, _I_ would pay him back on your behalf. You are my friend, Keith. I see no shame in friends helping each other, while my desired job in the psychological field should pay well, and – indeed – I partially funded this with some of my own savings.”

“You mean your profit from those articles you published?”

“Indeed, I believe that much in your success.”

Lotor broke the last few steps between them. He reached up and clasped his hands around Keith’s neck, so that his thumbs could trace patterns at his jawbone, and tears formed in his eyes as he laughed with happiness . . . Keith nuzzled into the touch. It took a lot for Keith to trust another person; even so many years after his trauma, he would only abide touches from Krolia and Shay, and yet he allowed Lotor to hold him in an intimate hold. Lotor whispered:

“Come with me to Daibazaal when I get my Masters?”

Krolia whistled from other by the shack, before pointing to her eyes and then to Lotor, and he let go quickly as if burned and blushed a bright shade of purple, before Keith laughed and blew a raspberry at his mother who only laughed in return. Lotor knew he would have to drive back to university soon, which left no more than a few exchanged greetings and pieces of small talk with Krolia, and a part of him prayed he made a good impression. Keith nudged Lotor in his side and bit at his lip with a blush, as he asked in a teasing voice:

“Do they need mechanics in space?”

Lotor laughed and threw his arms around Keith. It was an uncomfortable hold, with Keith half-naked and drenched with sweat and water, but he allowed himself to cry in relief as he was held in turn and strong arms wrapped around him. He never allowed himself to dream of friendships beyond Zethrid, Acxa, and Ezor. This was something treasured and perfect, enough that he never wanted to let go of Keith. He held him ever closer.

* * *

Lotor drew in a deep breath.

The house before him was average in nature. There appeared to be two stories in total, along with a large lawn complete with the cliché of a white picket fence, and – in many respects – it reminded him of his childhood home with his beloved parents. He caught the sound of a heavy bass coming from the upstairs window, where a small figure moved as if in time of the music, while in another window a ball could be seen tossed up and down into the air.

He smiled and glanced though the lower windows beside the door, where Keith ran to and fro with a desperate desire to clean and tidy every surface, while Shay giggled behind her hand and watched him with a loving gaze. Krolia spotted Lotor, as she laid the table in the dining room directly opposite the main hall, and ran immediately over to the doors with a warm smile. He noted she dressed in formal Galra attire, as if seeking to make a good impression on the royalty she fought to protect in the civil war. Krolia flung open the door.

“You must be Lotor,” chirped Krolia.

Lotor nodded with a polite smile. He clasped his hands tight on the bag before him, which contained an expensive wine from his father’s cellar, and – with an outstretched hand – offered it to Krolia who took it with a bright smile and tilted her head to the side. A cool breeze drifted by him, bringing a chill to his skin, and yet the delicious aroma of food caused his mouth to water and his eyes to instinctively move to the table. He whispered politely:

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Krolia.”

“Don’t be so formal,” said Krolia. “Hey, let’s head inside!”

Krolia moved aside to let him move forward. He entered with his head low, as he muttered a ‘thank you’, and stepped inside as the door closed behind him with a soft click, before Krolia led the way through the house towards the table. The hallway was dark and cast in shadows, but that only made the bright light of the dining room ever brighter, like a beacon of hope to which he could not help but be drawn, and he smiled as they finally reached the table and took a seat opposite Keith who slid into his seat at the exact same moment with a blush.

Shay hummed an old tune, as Krolia came behind her and kissed her cheek. He smiled to see the small intimacies between them, even as Krolia came and sat beside him, and – quickly offering to help with the plates – Shay turned and shook her head to him, before walking over with platters covered with silver lids towards the table. A few were scented like Balmeran cuisine, while others were clearly Galra in nature. Keith must have caught his glancing desire to uncover them, as he chuckled behind his hand and nodded towards the main staircase.

“My brothers are always the last down,” said Keith. “We don’t tend to eat until everyone is here and we’ve said grace, which sucks when you like to eat when food’s still hot, but – don’t worry – I’ve text them. They should be down soon; we just have to wait a minute.”

“All the better for us,” teased Krolia. “My boy is now a self-sufficient nineteen-year old, and his best friend is our future king, and – well – now I get to poke and pry into the life of royalty to see just _who_ is the one to finally make my son smile! I hope you don’t mind we organised this meal to celebrate your graduation? We owed you so much and – ah –”

“Mom just wants to pry,” complained Keith.

“Can you blame me? I just want to make sure his intentions are pure. I wouldn’t complain were my son to become Prince Consort of Daibazaal, but I would rather know that you’re both on the same page, because in two years Lotor will have finished his Masters. What then? I don’t want you falling madly in love only for planets to separate you both! I made that mistake, and long-distance led to long-running problems . . . it ruined your life . . .”

“No, _Shiro_ ruined my old life. _You_ gave me a new life.”

“Still,” interrupted Shay. “I applaud Lotor on graduating with honours, but I must ask what happens when he becomes a post-graduate.” Shay turned to Lotor. “I am concerned whether you shall leave Keith, as he has grown quite attached to you, and your people shall need their ruler to be present upon their planet. It is a question that has plagued me for some time.”

Lotor blushed and looked down to his plate. He noted the expensive china, with a golden pattern around the rim, and not a single scratch or mark marred its surface or shine in any form, as if they purposely brought new dinnerware for his arrival. There were an array of cutlery on either side, bringing back memories of etiquette lessons and rehearsal dinners, and he nervously cast his eyes to Keith and half-smiled as he teased out:

“You know, _most_ parents start with small talk.”

Keith laughed and tried to hide his laughter with a feigned cough, until Krolia quirked an eyebrow and Shay let out a low chuckle, and – with a quiet movement – Shay took the wine bottle and poured into three glasses, but Keith was presented with a non-alcoholic sparkling cider instead to allow for him not to be left out. There was no question that he wanted to spend a lifetime with Keith, but equally Keith was his friend and never was there discussion on anything more, and he knew he could never be so presumptuous on matters.

“I wish to remain with my friend,” said Lotor.

“So _just_ friends?” Krolia asked.

“Just because I would not say ‘no’, does not mean that I have said ‘yes’,” chided Lotor. “I love Keith dearly, but I am content with the friendship between us and what that entails. If we become more once I gain my Masters, I shall linger on Earth and allow us to decide how to continue . . . Keith is always welcome to return at my side. If we remain friends, I shall still keep the offer open . . . Keith is welcome to travel as my companion.”

“Keith has never been off-planet,” whispered Shay.

“I think I would suggest a visit before making a permanent decision. I hoped to invite Keith to our home-world after I gain my Masters, where we might spend some months, and – upon our return to Earth – Keith would be in a position to know whether he could cope with such a move or whether it is beyond him. I will support him in either decision.”

Krolia opened her mouth to respond, but a clear noise cut off any sound. There were giggles and shouts on the landing above the stairs, while two tiny sets of feet ran back and forth with childish cries in their playtime, and soon they were running down the stairs with a thunderous noise that could compete with any storm. A part of him longed for siblings in turn, as he experienced a stab of loneliness and turned as the two children appeared.

The first that ran inside was clearly Ren. Lotor put him down to around eight years of age, with blue-grey eyes that were remarkably expressive and filled with absolute joy, and – with a churning of his stomach – he was mildly reminded of Keith as a child, enough that he almost apologised to Ren then and there out of confused association. A tuft of black hair was styled into something akin to a Mohawk, which mimicked Keith’s lazy and unusual style, and he hopped up onto a chair beside Keith with a grin that revealed a missing tooth.

Lotor laughed at such an adorable sight. He turned his head . . . _a boy recognisable_. . . it stole his full attention, while his heart raced and his skin broke into a sweat, and he struggled to find words even as the boy yawned and stretched with slow movements. The two Galra ears were hidden behind locks of black hair, while a patch of purple fur peaked over the top of his t-shirt and blended well with his purple skin. The boy looked to him and mumbled:

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

 _Throk_.

He was now ten-years old, but there was no mistaking this was Throk. The grumpy and half-asleep expression matched Keith to perfection, while his t-shirt barely came down to hide his old shorts, and – as if dressed for bed – he cricked his neck and stared toward Lotor with bags under his eyes and a loud yawn. Lotor could stand it no longer. He stood so fast that his stool was sent hurtling to the floor, and he ran straight towards Throk with open arms.

Throk yelped and tried to stumble back. Lotor held ever tight, as he wept with tears that refused to cease, until his face was awash with tears and snot and saliva, and he half-laughed at what a hideous picture he must have made, even as he pulled back just enough to lock eyes with Throk and run his trembling hands over his face. Lotor was on his knees perhaps half-terrifying a child that likely could not recognise him, and yet the absolute joy overflowed from his heart as he finally found completion. He kissed Throk’s cheeks over and over.

“I am sorry,” whispered Lotor. “I am so sorry!”

* * *

“I’m so sorry,” pleaded Keith.

Lotor sat down at the kitchen table. Keith busied himself making a pot of coffee, already so intimately familiar with the layout of the kitchen, although he constantly spilled and sloshed the contents until the room was filled with hisses of pain and mumbled curses. The scent of caffeine drifted through the air, along with freshly warmed pastries that Keith grabbed from Lotor’s favourite bakery on the way towards his home. A song played over the radio, which sounded familiar as an old Daibazaal tune from his mother’s collection. Keith called out:

“I – I thought you knew about them!”

Keith turned around to slide cup of coffee to Lotor. It stopped just short of his gently clasped hands, where a plate filled with pastries soon followed and nudged the cup enough for it to spill, and – as Lotor curses as a drop burned his skin – Keith panicked all the more and ran towards him with a tea-towel dipped in water. The fabric dabbed at his hand, until Lotor rolled his eyes with a smile and shoved a pasty into Keith’s jabbering mouth.

It took only a wave of his hand to convince Keith to sit opposite him, with a mug of coffee in turn, and yet – even with a full mouth – Keith continued to babble endless apologies, while Lotor flicked through the photographs on the tablet beside him. There were a couple of Throk with Sendak, along with a huge array with Lotor, but he noticed the ‘restricted’ icon around them that signified they were not likely accessible to Throk, at least not while he was still in his youth. The public photographs only started from around his second year.

“You never referred to Throk by name,” said Lotor.

He laughed when he saw one of Throk covered in mud, just sat in the middle of a soccer field with the perfect pose of a model and a ball under a bent leg, and he remembered how Throk always yearned to be outside as a child and would reach for the windows. Lotor traced the soft pad of his thumb over the chubby cheeks and blinked back tears, even as Keith reached out and took his hand with a firm grip. It was a reassuring touch. There was warmth there absent of expectations and desires, but simply a wish to ease his pain.

“I can’t apologise enough,” swore Keith.

“It is not your fault.” Lotor smiled. “I was told as a child that Throk resided with you, enough that I should have put two-and-two together when you talked about your two brothers, and you often refer to Ren by name, but with Throk . . . I guess I never dared to hope . . . he was like a son to me, for so long I grieved the loss of him. How is he now?”

“Well, he still hates oranges,” teased Keith. “He sucks them dry and then spits them away, but he weirdly won’t drink orange juice . . . says it’s not the same. He and Ren are best friends, even though they fight _all_ the time, and some nights Throk keeps me awake as he tends to fall asleep to really loud music. He gets nightmares sometimes, too.

“Like, I’ll wake up to hear him crying out ‘ _stay, stay, stay’_ , but he never remembers what scares him except that there’s like this hole in his chest, and he feels like someone died. He is amazing with his hands . . . he makes jewellery and pottery with Momma, and he will always help me out with mechanical work . . . Mom teaches him to fight and spar, too. He’s an average student, plus he _hates_ maths with a passion. Throk’s a good kid.”

Lotor laughed to realise he tasted tears. They ran down his cheeks and clouded his vision, as he remembered the stab of intense guilt as he heard the words . . . _‘stay, stay, stay’_. . . a tiny part of him wished he had endured, simply so as not to be parted from Throk, but he knew a lifetime spent in captivity would have been no life at all for such a sweet child. Lotor brought his free hand to his chest, as he rubbed at his racing heart and swallowed back the lump in his throat, and he was happy just to see Throk happy . . . Throk had a good life.

“I sometimes think they cope better than me,” said Keith.

It was a true statement. Lotor squeezed back on Keith’s hand, even as he wiped away his tears, and he looked through the photos with a quick swipe of his finger . . . _trophies lining the walls of the lounge, family portraits with five smiling faces, a cast on a leg signed with hundreds of scrawled marks, a birthday cake surrounded by children that carried Throk on strong shoulders_. . . Lotor almost envied them their happiness, as he whispered:

“They do not remember what we remember.”

“Yeah, but they also have someone to fuss over them,” continued Keith. “Mom and Momma are great, but you get to a certain age and you feel _weird_ asking to sleep in the middle . . . you learn to deal with the nightmares alone, learn to cope with the flashbacks alone . . . Momma works with traumatised kids all day, so I feel bad making her bring her work home, too.”

“Not to mention the concerns. If I tell my father I am depressed, he demands I leave my apartment and come home under suicide watch. If I tell my mother I am anxious, she will call the doctor to arrange for a prescription. You fear honesty, as honesty brings panic.”

“Then you feel guilty and then they feel worse.”

“But bottling it up hurts all the more.”

“Yeah, I can get that,” said Keith. “I’m at the point where I want _space_ , but I also know that space means being alone and I can’t deal with that, either. I think I need someone like you who just _gets_ what it’s like to have that trauma on your shoulder, but knows to just listen without judgement and knows what to say without making it worse.”

Lotor flicked again through the photos. He saw the absolute love for Keith, but he could also see how that same love might prove to be overwhelming, as so many photographs were the boys climbing all over Keith or painting on his face while he slept or trying to feed him mud-pies in the yard, and Lotor smiled with a shake of his head. A press of a button turned off the device, as Lotor squeezed hard on Keith’s hand and relished in the small intimacy.

The house was so much louder with another soul; every breath could be heard, every rustle of clothing and every scratch of ceramic on wood, and Lotor relished in every sigh and murmur and audible swallow. It was no longer like those years alone in isolation, but like those nights when his father would fall asleep in the chair at his side or his mother would hum along to an old song in the car, and he looked towards the door of the empty second bedroom, where the handle gathered dust and the sun stained the wood an off-colour. Lotor suggested:

“Why do you not live with me?”

Keith rapidly blinked. He instinctively ran the pad of his thumb over the soft skin of Lotor’s hand, which was a comforting and enjoyable gesture, and Lotor hummed in contentment, as he reached out with his other hand to touch Keith’s wrist and feel at his pulse. The gentle beat picked up in speed, which was followed by a hitch of breath. Lotor instinctively licked at his lips, before he quickly tried to hide the gesture, and Keith mumbled out:

“Wait, what?”

Lotor squeezed at Keith’s hand, before he gently pulled away and downed his coffee, and – with a shuddered breath – he headed towards the sink to clean his cup, as he sought to hide the flush to his cheeks and the hope in his eyes. The water ran cold over his skin, while he glanced outside the small window to the garden beyond. He half-envisioned Throk and Ren playing outside by the old tree, where maybe they could put up a swing, while Krolia and Shay – and Zarkon and Honerva – lingered by the barbeque. Lotor dried his hands.

“I have a two-bedroom house,” said Lotor. “It may be small and only one floor, but it is in a nice neighbourhood and has state-of-the art security . . . everything from a gated community to numerous cameras to sprinklers in case of fire . . . I would be less alone, but you would also have space without being alone in turn. It seems a good idea.”

“You wouldn’t mind? I mean – yeah – I can call my parents and be moved in first thing next week, if it’s all okay with you! I’ll pay my share of the rent and utilities, and I’ll do my share of the chores, too, but . . . can you do the cooking? You’re a much better cook.”

“So long as you can fix the dripping tap in the bathroom.”

“You _still_ haven’t gotten that fixed?”

Lotor rolled his eyes and turned on the tap. It took only a flick of water for Keith to cry out, and – as Lotor struggled to hold back laughter – Keith dove toward the tap and put his thumb under the faucet, which sent a spray of water over both of them. A childish water-fight ensued, leaving both men laughing even as they tried to peal the worst of the layers away from their flesh, and Lotor blushed to see Keith was more than comfortable to strip away his shirt, even when Lotor strove to remain fully covered. Lotor smirked and shrugged.

“I needed to leave you _something_ to do,” teased Lotor.

Keith laughed and wrung out his shirt over the sink, before he grabbed a pastry and took a bite, and Lotor – with a lingering look – headed over to the spare bedroom and flung wide the door, where he revealed a good sized room that was in need of fresh air. Keith followed behind him, dropping crumbs everywhere, as he carried his wet shirt over one shoulder with a hooked finger. He stopped just behind Lotor and asked with a smile:

“So when can I move in?”

* * *

The envelope was in perfect condition. It was a familiar blue from his youth, just like the cards he would receive every single year, and it even waited for him in the same spot that Shiro always chose to ‘surprise’ him. Keith reached down and removed the plant-pot from the blue paper, as he crouched down and gently flipped the envelope over in search of a return-address, but there was only the messy handwriting that littered the front and marked his new home-address with a confident scrawl. Keith swallowed back the lump in his throat.

He stood in the doorway of the one-story house. Lotor fussed about unpacking boxes labelled ‘books’, as he inserted them onto his bookcases with a strict need for an alphabetical order, while Krolia carried heavy boxes under one arm as if they weighed nothing, and the world carried on even as he stood with trembling hands and paled skin. Keith stopped Shay as she walked by with arms filled to the brim with stuffed toys, as he asked quietly:

“Did you tell anyone I was moving here?”

Krolia stopped in moving boxes; there were large piles everywhere, from a lifetime being spoiled with every last item he could every desire, but – more than that – there was a lifetime of _memories_ that filled books upon books of photographs and keepsakes . . . _pebbles from a beach party, a scrap of confetti from Throk’s birthday party, Ren’s first tooth held in a silver trinket box . . ._ Keith smiled even through his fear. Shay placed a hand on his upper back and guided him inside the open lounge, as Krolia asked in a quiet voice of concern:

“No, why do you ask?”

Keith handed the card to Shay. A sharp narrowing of her eyes betrayed her concern, as she glanced between Lotor and Krolia with pursed lips, and soon Keith was guided to the kitchen table and sat down with worried hands running over him, as if they might sense a temperature or a sweat or some other visible sign of distress. He was numb. There was no anger or fear or depression, but just an indifferent coldness that swept over him and erased all else . . .

The numbness brought more distress than anything else, as he knew he should have felt _something_ and yet the compartmentalised memories were sealed up tight, enough that – while he understood them and found closure with them – they were not ones he ever wanted to revisit or further explore in depth. It was like having grieved for a traumatic death, only to face the ghost of a memory all over again . . . Lotor stood behind him massaging his shoulders, while Krolia brought him a hot mug of coffee . . . Keith rapidly blinked.

Shay slid the unopened card onto the table. Keith glanced toward the paper and frowned, caught between a sudden unadulterated fury and a perplexed depression, and he wondered – after so many years – why Shiro chose _now_ to make contact, as if he purposely sought to reopen old wounds. Keith screwed shut his eyes and took a sip of coffee. He fought to control his breathing, while Shay held onto his forearm and asked in a quiet whisper:

“Do you wish for me to destroy it, my son?”

“No,” muttered Keith. “It won’t undo the fact he knows where I live. It won’t undo the fact he’s obviously still thinking about me. It – It took me _years_ to learn right from wrong . . . it took me _years_ to learn to trust people, to befriend people, to just be happy . . . I’m strong enough to face this, but I’m not strong enough to live forever wondering what he wanted.”

“He simply wants to make himself feel better,” spat Lotor. “I received a card from Sendak once, complete with money inside as a ‘gift’ for my birthday, but I returned the card with a note saying that I donated the money to a children’s charity. I never heard from him since.”

“It does sound a way to alleviate guilt,” admitted Krolia.

“So why dredge up the past?” Keith gritted his teeth. “Why does _his_ guilt take priority over my peace of mind? I – I can’t have _children_ , thanks to him! He let me around people that let me think that just because something _feels_ good that it must be okay . . . he let me think that sex is the only way to show love, he controlled every aspect of my entire life . . .”

Keith threw himself back in his chair. He ran his hands over his face, while tears built at the corners of his eyes, and Lotor – still behind him – slid his arms around his neck and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. It brought a smile to his lips, even as Lotor pulled back and allowed his hands to rest lazily on his shoulders. Keith reached up and squeezed at his hands, even as he thought back to the years of abuse and isolation. A tear ran down his cheek. He tilted back his head and locked eyes with Lotor, as he asked with a broken voice:

“What could he possibly have to say to _fix_ that?”

Krolia knelt on his left side, opposite to Shay. A hand moved to touch on his knee, where he instinctively flinched with a harsh exhale of breath, and – with a muttered apology – Krolia moved her hand away and pulled the card in front of him. He looked at the paper with a canine tooth digging into his lip until blood was drawn, and Krolia sighed as she took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the fresh wound, while she said in a warm voice:

“There’s only one way to find out, Keith.”

The envelope stared at him from the table. Keith drew in a deep breath, surrounded by loved ones, and took it into hands with trembling fingers, as he tore open the envelope and pulled out the card from inside. A large ‘20’ marked the front of the card, which was so overloaded with glitter that it coated his black jeans and caused them to sparkle, and – as he cursed and quickly tried to sweep at the denim – he cast his eye inside the handwriting so familiar from his youth. He swallowed hard and blinked back tears, as he read aloud:

_‘Dear Keith,_

_‘I love you more than words can express. I am sorry that I hurt you; I know now that I had no right to expect such intimacies from you, just as I know I should have protected you from those that hurt you, and I just need you to know I would take it all back if I could. I can’t undo the trauma I caused you, but I can better myself and help others. I would like to see you, if you feel strong enough, so I can apologise in person. I owe you that much._

_‘Always yours, Shiro.’_

Keith scrunched up the card. He clenched and clawed at it, until – with tears streaming down his face – he tore it into shreds and threw the scattered pieces onto the floor, and he raised a hand to stop Shay from bending down to pick at the pieces. Lotor slid into a chair opposite him, as Keith threw himself forward and buried his face into his hands. They gave him space. They gave him time to process. He took in a long and staggered breath, while he held one of the pieces in his hand that simply read ‘yours’, until Lotor found strength to break the silence.

“At least your message was more positive than mine.”

“What did yours say?” Keith asked.

“Sendak told me that he was willing to take me back.” Lotor curled his lip. “I used it to obtain a restraining order, after which I never heard from him again, but your abuser . . . he is either a good liar or truly attempting to turn over a new leaf. Be wary, in either case.”

Keith swallowed hard. A framed photograph sat centre of the kitchen table, where he stood centre of a professional portrait with Ren and Throk, and he knew – one day – Ren would want answers to questions . . . he might even want to speak to Shiro, he might even forgive Shiro . . . it was easy to know he was not alone, but more difficult to believe that fact. He ran his hands over his face, as he thought back to the thousands of good memories that were impossible to forget . . . _hugs, kind words, shared interests_. . . another tear fell.

“What do I do?” Keith asked. “Do I forgive him?”

Krolia stood and wrapped her arms around him, and – with a choked laugh – he wept with relief that she knew to avoid skin-to-skin contact, as she carefully avoided any exposed flesh and kept her kisses to his hair. Shay rubbed at his back, while Lotor busied himself by emptying the various boxes in a desperate attempt to provide some ‘use’, but even then he talked aimlessly about the subjects he knew Keith loved with a jovial tone.

It hurt to breathe. He struggled to draw in enough air, as his mothers fussed about him and Lotor strove to distract him, and he only knew that time had passed when his cold coffee was replaced by a warm mug, while family photographs now littered the wall alongside those of Lotor with his friends and parents. The moon was visible through the French doors that led out onto the veranda, while all the boxes now collected together by his bedroom door, and the moving van was locked up and emptied of all items. Krolia whispered into his ear:

“Only you know what is right for you, my love.”

* * *

Keith drew in a deep breath.

Krolia and Shay sat on the second-hand couch, which was stained and ripped in places, but he noticed that Shay kept her hands on her lap and refused to touch any items, while Krolia furrowed her brow and eyes screwed shut tight, as she fought the internal conflict in mediating between the son that was victimised and the son who claimed rehabilitation. It was clear she still loved Shiro, but somehow hated him in every same heartbeat . . .

It was easy to pity her situation. If Shiro had harmed a stranger, maybe she could have supported him through therapy and rehabilitation, but he had not hurt a stranger . . . he hurt his brother and legal charge . . . he hurt _Keith_. Krolia was put into a situation where she was forced to take a side, but there was no debate . . . Keith was the victim, as such he would have her unconditional support and attention. Still, he wondered whether it felt like a betrayal to turn her back on Shiro . . . even if he brought it on himself through his choices.

Shiro sat opposite them, while Keith paced back and forth. The apartment was in a lousy part of town, far away from any schools or parks or places where children might congregate, and due to his record – it seemed Shiro was only able to find a landlord with rather low standards to rent to him, enough that a huge amount of health codes looked to be broken. There were screams in apartments above and a drip from the ceiling in the kitchen. Keith mumbled:

“So . . . out of prison, huh?”

Shiro bit awkwardly at his lips. He clenched and unclenched his hands into tight fists, while holding them on his muscled thighs, and looked towards Keith with such warmth that Keith nearly threw up on the spot, as he remembered how those eyes would undress him before dragging him onto the nearest surface to fuck hard and raw and fast. Keith swayed on his feet, until Shay ran to his side and supported him, and he noticed that Shiro was on his feet in turn, with his hands outstretched and a shaking smile on his lips, as he choked out:

“Would – Would it be okay to hug you?”

The question brought a hiss of breath from Krolia. Keith – even as he laughed and tears ran down his face – saw that she clenched her fists so tight that red crescent-shaped cuts appeared on her palm, while blood trickled down and onto the sofa. It took all his strength to pull away from Shay, even as he longed for her warm embrace, and he hunched over as he jabbed a trembling finger in the air towards Shiro with a curled lip. He choked on the air itself.

“You – You have _some_ nerve,” spat Keith.

“I – I’m sorry, Keith, I –”

“No, fuck you, Shiro.” Keith swallowed hard. “ _Fuck you_! You – You – You fucking _raped_ me nearly every day for as long as I remember, making me think that blow jobs and anal sex were how people expressed love, and that _really_ fucked me up! You made me think that love and sex were the same thing, and that touching people is all I could give to people, but you want a fucking hug? You want to _touch_ me? You’ll never touch me ever fucking again!”

“It – It’s not like that, Keith, I swear! I know it was rough for you, but –”

“ _You don’t fucking know shit_! Did you know I woke up with nightmares for years after? Did you once know I tried to give oral sex to Throk, because I thought that was what you were _supposed_ to do for a child? Did you know I lost count with the guys I slept with in college, because I was just so _desperate_ to be liked by people and it’s all I knew to do?”

“I know – _I know_ – I ruined your life and –”

“I was in therapy for fucking _years_ after what you did to me, Shiro! I still can’t stand skin-to-skin contact with people, and I will never be able to have children, and I still freak out whenever someone tried to put boundaries on me, as if they’re going to imprison me like how _you_ imprisoned me! I fucked you out of fear I’d lose you. I fucked you just to get some real attention. I fucked you because _you_ were a fucking monster!”

Keith slid down onto his knees. It was a rush of adrenaline and endorphins, as his throat grew sore and his lungs grew hoarse, and – choking on tears and mucus – he struggled to take in enough air to remain conscious, as Shay sat beside him and held him close enough that he could smell her perfume and heard her heartbeat against his ear. A weird part of him felt better, _finally_ attacking Shiro with words and confronting him about the past, and now nothing was left unsaid, and yet -? It wasn’t enough to undo his trauma. It wasn’t enough.

“How can you make all that go away?”

He ran his hands over now bloodshot eyes, as he struggled to stand once more. A heavy weight was lifted from his shoulders, as his vision returned to normal from blurred spots that littered his retinas, and he took in normal breaths as he came to his senses. Shiro might have ‘comforted’ him with sex in the past, but now he was powerless . . . sitting weak and alone in a rundown apartment . . . Keith had nothing to fear, even as he remained ever dizzy.

“I can’t, Keith,” whispered Shiro.

“Okay, so why did you invite me to this shithole?”

“I wanted to know about Ren and Throk,” admitted Shiro. “I wanted to know you were okay, too. They were my _son_ and _nephew_ , Keith. You were my _brother_. I know I can never convince you that I’ve changed, but I – I do care about you . . . I do.”

“Mom and Momma adopted them. They’re _their_ sons, now.”

“I – I mean – okay – that’s . . . _wow_.” Shiro blinked and shook his head. “I’ll admit I wanted to be a part of their lives and do right by them, so that’s a lot to process, but I guess I should have expected that after what I did to you and my time locked up. Do you think I could still send them money, like child support? I need to do _something_ to make amends.”

“That’s not up to me,” whispered Keith.

Keith pushed away from Shay and headed to the window. The view outside was nothing but a derelict construction site with rusted equipment, with graffiti scrawled onto the walls and sides, and Keith should have felt happy that Shiro suffered, but . . . he didn’t feel anything. It confused him. The anger was like a ball inside him, but no amount of revenge could undo his pain and trauma and fears, but to hold onto that same anger -? Keith spat out:

“Is that all you have to say, Shiro?”

He struggled to hold onto the windowsill, as his hands closed of their own accord with a painful set of pins and needles, and he swayed again only to be held by Shay, who hummed an old song to him with a gentle kiss to sweat-soaked hair. A terrible sensation overcame his head, like insects were crawling over his flesh _en masse_ , and he knew – as he counted his breaths as taught by his therapist – that he was losing himself to a panic attack, enough that he fought to regain control. Even now Shiro had control over him. Keith laughed.

“I want to apologise to you,” said Shiro.

Shiro stood and walked toward him. Krolia jumped to her feet and pointed a dagger in his direction, one from their people and passed down through their family, but the blade was sharp and was enough to cut through even metal. Shiro raised his hands in surrender and sat back down, as she sat down in turn with a curled lip, and Keith – with a shuddered breath – turned around to face his abuser. Shiro looked so much older, with more lines . . .

“Okay, so apologise,” muttered Keith.

“I’m actually still in therapy, too,” said Shiro. “I spent a while thinking you consented, so I did nothing wrong, and that was the biggest obstacle to overcome, as I realised that ‘consent’ means someone has to be fully informed about all areas, and – well – you couldn’t be fully informed at your age, could you? I took advantage. I was in the wrong.

“I’ve been working with charities. I’ve been to schools to give talks about abuse, about risk factors and how to get help, and I’ve written a book while in prison, so that people can educate themselves and maybe not make my mistakes. I’m trying to redeem myself; I’m donating half the proceeds to local shelters, a quarter to a trust fund for you three kids, and I’m otherwise trying to get my life on track. I’m _trying_ to do right, Keith.”

“If you want my forgiveness, Shiro, then –”

“No, I don’t want that.” Shiro wiped away a tear. “Even if I had your forgiveness, I still wouldn’t be able to forgive myself and your forgiveness wouldn’t absolve me. I – I wanted you to know that is _wasn’t_ your fault; I couldn’t help what Matt and those men did to you, but the _second_ I found out should have been the _second_ it stopped. I can’t blame anyone else for my actions, as I made those choices and I committed those actions. It’s on me.

“I don’t know what kind of man you are now, but I know what kind of kid you were then. I know you used to blame yourself for everything, always did whatever you could to please people, and you internalised so much and often stayed wilfully ignorant of things you didn’t want to confront. You _can’t_ blame yourself for this, Keith. You just can’t.”

“Why can’t I?” Keith sniffed. “Why do you care? Do you love me?”

“I will _always_ love you, Keith. _Always_.”

Keith could hold it in no longer. A wave of nausea ripped through his stomach, building in his chest and lingering in his throat, and – at the taste of bile – he ran to the open kitchenette and threw his body over the sink, just in time for a stream of vomit to pour out and coat the entire iron surface with chunks of undigested food. He panted for breath and ran the tap, while splashing his face and swilling his mouth to wash away the taste, before he spun around with spinning head and vision blurred as if with a migraine. He spat out:

“Love isn’t raping a fucking four-year old.”

A cold silence descended on the apartment. He caught sight of smashed dishes across the hall, while a baby cried downstairs, and the dripping liquid from the ceiling fell with light and monotonous splashes into a bucket on the kitchen table. Keith sniffed and stumbled across the room, until he reached the cheap door with a visible hole in its centre from a powerful punch, and – throwing it open – he looked over his shoulder with empty eyes.

“I think I need some air,” said Keith.

* * *

_‘Do you think speaking to him helped?’_

_‘Yes and no,’ said Keith. ‘I always wondered what I’d say to him. I even had this whole script planned in my head. It’s weird that all went out the window, but at the same time . . . I feel like I said everything that needed to be said. I think I’d have spent my whole life with these unspoken words boiling up inside me, if he hadn’t given me that opportunity to speak.’_

_‘It sounds like the event has given you closure.’ Lotor smiled and stroked at his hair. ‘I was worried for you the entire time, as I played through our trauma over and over, and yet you appear strong and resilient. You appear happier than when you left.’_

_‘I – I guess I am. It feels . . . it feels finally over.’_

_Lotor saw the conflict in Keith’s expression. The photographs of Ren and Throk littered the table, each one a snapshot of a moment in time, and – slipped among them – photographs of Shiro also stood with prominence and marked the ability to finally face him. Keith lay warm in Lotor’s arms, against his chest and between his legs, while a soft blanket rested over them and classical music played from the television. Lotor reached up to massage the strained and tensed muscles of his shoulders, as Keith let out a long and staggered sigh._

_‘It feels over,’ murmured Keith._

* * *

Lotor woke with panted breath.

He jolted upright in the blackened room . . . a cold sweat ran down his skin, soaking his pyjamas to his flesh, while his heart pounded loud in his ears to block out all other sound . . . the house was deathly still, as he struggled to adjust his eyesight to the darkness. A crack in the door revealed a light from within the kitchen, as Keith padded around with bare feet on tiled floors . . . slight slaps echoing out through the one-story home.

It provided a small comfort. Lotor swallowed back the bile that burned his throat, while he ran a trembling hand through his hair, and – as the light from the refrigerator illuminated Keith’s figure – he tried to concentrate on the fact he was no longer alone. The sight of his bare legs provided a small distraction, while the creases of his night-shirt moved in time to the sway of his hips, and Lotor slowly regained control of his breathing, as he watched Keith chug milk straight from the bottle and slide it back with a wipe of his mouth on his hand.

Lotor let out a broken laugh, which caught Keith’s attention. A swear echoed about the room, as he visibly jumped back and rapidly looked around, and – spotting Lotor awake and shaking and with tear-stained eyes – he bit at his lips and came closer. Lotor counted the steps, while he strove to hold back the tears that spilled down his cheeks. _A knock at the door._ Lotor looked up and saw Keith pushing open the door, as he whispered:

“You okay?”

Lotor could hold it back no longer. The tears fell fast. He struggled to see through the blurred veil of tears, even as Keith swept into the room and jumped onto the bed beside him, and – before he could utter a word – he was pulled to the side against a firm chest, as Keith ran long fingers through his long locks of hair. It was a relaxing gesture, reminiscent of his mother during his childhood, and he half-smiled as he tasted the salt of his tears on his lips.

The minutes drifted by until nearly an hour passed. Lotor soon realised that his head was on Keith’s lap, while soft fingers continued to massage his scalp and run through his hair, and he felt truly fatigued as the moonlight shone through the windows, casting a soft glow over his skin as he drew in a staggered breath. The blankets hung low on his waist, while Keith sat back against plump pillows with bare legs stretched over them, and Lotor pulled back with a loud sniff so that he could lie down properly on the bed against his firm mattress.

“I thought the nightmares had stopped,” whispered Lotor.

Keith sighed and reached down to squeeze at his shoulder. It was a light touch, but what surprised most was that he touched at the bare square of skin. Lotor noted his pyjama top has rolled down his upper arm from movement and panic, while Keith stroked at the purple flesh with the soft pads of his fingers and a low hum, and – despite his dislike of skin-to-skin contact – he appeared confident and secure. There was only the noise of traffic from outside to break the silence, as Keith bit at his lip and fidgeted where he sat beside him.

“I find they come back in times of stress,” said Keith.

“You still have your nightmares?”

“Yeah,” murmured Keith. “I sometimes get nightmares of giving birth and the baby being taken from me . . . sometimes nightmares that I’m separated from Throk and Ren . . . I once dreamt Shiro came back and took me to his house, and I begged and begged to go home, but he just kept me there with a smile and told me he knew what I wanted. I was trapped.”

“I dreamt something similar. I think it is because your visit with Shiro brought back so many fears and worries, and I saw myself in my dream forgiving him and bowing to him and then him taking me . . . gently at first, as I felt such shame . . . then pain . . . such pain . . .”

“It’s just a dream, Lotor. He can’t hurt you.”

Lotor instinctively clenched. Every muscle of his body tensed, as he strove to take in low and deep breaths, and he rolled his head to the side to see Keith sliding down beside him on the bed, until his shirt caught on the sheets and moved up to reveal matching boxers. _Lotor was safe_. He was in a home with a man he cherished and with a family close in proximity, with a bachelor’s under his belt and a master’s on his way, and Sendak was so far removed from his life that it was over a decade since they last met, and yet he could only choke out:

“Then why does he hurt me even when I dream?”

Tears threatened to spill again, as Keith threw out his hand. He grabbed at Lotor’s fist, until his unclenched his hand and fingers entwined, and – with a gentle squeeze – he rolled onto his side and locked eyes with Lotor who could only force a broken smile in response. They sat in silence as the stand-by lights on various appliances cast shadows about the room, while Keith ran the pad of his thumb along the back of Lotor’s hand. Keith whispered:

“Have you thought about speaking to Sendak?”

“No, why would I?”

“It could give you a sense of closure.” Keith shrugged with a smile. “I know I’m still young, and I can’t say I’m ‘cured’ at twenty, plus Shay keeps stressing that – why you _can_ heal – there will always be scars . . . I think they want to keep me realistic, you know? Still, it feels like a weight’s been lifted. I’ve confronted my worst fear and I survived.”

“I am not as strong as you, Keith.”

“It’s not even about strength. I think it’s about closure. I mean . . . I don’t know . . . I needed to face my past and deal with it head on, because I think I just needed to express myself and be able to communicate and get all those feelings _out_ there, so by talking to Shiro -? It was like all these emotions beneath the surface were finally able to explode out. It was cathartic.”

“You always were a creative soul,” said Lotor. “You were so happy with art therapy, while the idea of expressing my emotions through clay figures seemed abhorrent to me, and – honestly – I think what I need is less to confront my past and more to forget my past.”

“You can’t forget what’s a part of you, Lotor.”

“Sendak is _not_ a part of me.”

“No, but your past _is_ a part of you.”

Lotor winced. The cold truth was impossible to ignore . . . he would always bear the scars on his back and ankle from the whips and chains, just as he would always remember what it felt like to wake with a grown man inside him, and he would never forget the needles and medical exams that came as part of his rescue . . . he suffered, he endured, and he was freed. It was a process that lingered in his mind; some days it was like watching a clear movie on a large screen, other days like mismatched snapshots in a random order. Lotor shook his head.

“I know I throw myself into my studies a lot,” said Lotor. “It is simply that I cope through distraction, and I also cope by my desire to help others, as I seek to undo my trauma by helping others to escape their trauma. I wanted to get my Masters in psychology so that I could work closer with traumatised children. I will help them as Shay helped me.”

“That would be nice,” said Keith. “I think you’d do well.”

“I also want to change Daibazaal from a monarchy into a republic. I want to make real changes, which will help my people and create a better world, and I want to do that in _spite_ of Sendak and what he did to me for all those years . . . I don’t want to face my trauma, but _use_ my trauma and regain control over that trauma. I will use it to inspire me to do better, helping those around me and bettering society in the process. I will grow. I will mature.”

Lotor stared hard at the ceiling. It was easy to admire how Keith grew from a victim into a survivor, by overcoming his trauma and making peace with what happened, but Lotor struggled to forgive and forget in that same manner. The trauma brought with it a strong resolution and resignation, along with a burning rage that inspired him to press forward and prove Sendak wrong in all things, and – while he loathed the pain – it was familiar and helped push him forward in his ambitions. Keith interrupted his thoughts with a sadly spoken:

“I don’t think I can help with that.”

It was enough to bring Lotor to his senses. He squeezed hard at Keith’s hand, as he took in a long and deep breath, and he smiled to realise that he could not let his past control his present, even if Keith was right . . . he could not escape what was a part of him. If there was one small blessing, it was everything in his life brought him to Keith. He smiled through the conflicting emotions and blinked back his tears, as he thought carefully about his next words . . .

“You help simply by being so beloved to me.”

Keith blushed a deep shade of red, visible even through the darkness, and Lotor drew in a deep breath with a lick of his lips, as he closed his eyes and tried to fight away the memories that gathered and crowded inside his mind. It helped to have Keith so close to him, but time would take him back to his bed and Lotor would be alone with his thoughts . . . _alone with his memories, alone with the past . . . alone with Sendak_. . . Lotor reopened his eyes. A drip from the shared bathroom echoed about the room, while Keith asked with a quiet voice:

“Do you know what helped me with nightmares?”

“Hmm? Do pray tell, my friend.”

“It helped when Mom lay next to me.” Keith smiled and slid nearer. “I would be held close and she would kiss my forehead, and I knew I wasn’t alone and I wouldn’t be alone, and I would wake to a familiar face that would never hurt me. I could hold you, too?”

Lotor moved a little closer, as he turned fully on his side. He pressed as close to Keith as he dared, until his buttock and back pressed against Keith with a firm movement, and he relished at the warmth that came from another person. It briefly brought back memories of his time in captivity, but the warmth this time came from a trusted and beloved person, enough that he was half-certain the bad associations would easily be replaced by the good with time.

“I’d like that,” whispered Lotor.

Keith leaned over him to kiss his forehead. Two arms were soon wrapped around his waist, while he buried his face into the crook of Lotor’s neck, and soon every breath could be felt against his cheek, while his hair moved in time to the soft bursts of air. It was good. Keith almost moulded his body against Lotor, as if they were made for one another, and Lotor – with a staggered gasp – felt a spark of arousal that brought a natural stain to his pyjama bottoms. It was difficult to sleep, but this time the nightmares never came.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Lotor glanced to the clock above the television, which clicked by with the familiar ticktock sound that echoed about the quiet lounge, and he furrowed his brow to see the late hour, which meant that something was certainly amiss. The mug of cocoa on the coffee-table was stone cold; Lotor instinctively pulled the patchwork quilt up to his chin, as he cuddled closer to the cushions on the sofa, and the soft glow of the television reflected back some scenes from an old romance movie. It was enough to nearly lure him back into a sleep.

The doorbell rang again.

Lotor sat upright with a loud groan, as he shouted ‘coming’ to the late-night visitor. He threw aside the blanket and climbed to his feet, while Keith’s shirt clung tight to his frame and a loose pair of bottoms hung low on his hips, and – with a loud yawn – he wandered over to the door with the soft patter of footsteps. A look through the spy-hole revealed Keith half-slumped with an arm around Krolia, as she waved awkwardly with a half-smile.

He removed his finger from the button beside the door. It was a reflexive gesture . . . _‘– push will alert the security company and armed guards will immediately arrive to –’_. . . no one had used it in all their time in the small house, but its presence provided a constant reassurance, and Lotor felt grateful for the alarms and cameras all about the house. He unlocked the several locks and opened wide the door; Krolia practically dragged Keith inside, where she turned and leaned him against the wall. Keith slid to the floor.

There was a low gurgle from Keith, but no evident wounds. Lotor knitted his eyebrows together, as he knelt down and waved a hand in front of a pale face, but Keith – with a murmur and light slap – knocked his hand away and curled into a ball, where he seemingly slept with little snores uncharacteristic of his nightly routine. Krolia stretched her shoulders and arms with a hummed song, as Lotor asked in a low voice:

“Is Keith okay?”

Lotor slid an arm around Keith’s waist and hoisted him upward. There was a heavy stench of alcohol, which revolted Lotor to his core, and – as he tried not to retch and breathed deep – Keith murmured again and buried his face into the crook of Lotor’s neck, where his mumbling lips tickled at soft skin and brought an involuntary stab of arousal from Lotor. He adjusted how he stood to hide his erection, while he angled their bodies towards the bedroom door that was lately more a shared space than a private one. Krolia confessed:

“He’s – ah – a little drunk.”

It took more time than necessary to drag Keith to the bed; Lotor’s side was immaculate, while Keith’s side was still a mess . . . _‘what’s the point making a bed when you’re only going to sleep in it again anyway?’_. . . the bars across the windows cast eerie patterns about the room, while Lotor practically threw Keith onto his side. Keith rolled onto his side and snatched at Lotor’s pillow, bringing it to his face with a deep inhale. Lotor asked with a sigh:

“What happened?”

“It’s not every day you turn twenty-one,” chirped Krolia. “I took him to a bar, but I think he underestimated his ability to metabolise alcohol, and – _poof_ – my sober son was replaced by a mewling mess. He’s been asking non-stop for you, Lotor. I’d take him home, but Shay will have my head for allowing him to get into this state, and – well – this _is_ his home now.”

Krolia came around to undress him. Lotor blushed when he realised their clothes were merged in the same drawers and same wardrobes, and he mentally prayed that she did not assume he was taking advantage of her son, even as a part of him longed for something more intimate than just embraces and whispered words. Keith was soon clad in nothing but his boxers, which revealed a long scar along his lower abdomen, and Krolia searched for his sleep-shirt only to realise it adorned Lotor. Lotor blushed and said in a quick voice:

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.”

“Promise? I do worry about him.”

“I swear,” said Lotor. “I will be sure he keeps warm and there will be coffee awaiting him in the morning, along with water and paracetamol tonight to stave off the hangover, so that – by the time he has showered for work – he will be right as rain. He will be fine, Krolia.”

“It’s been years since I saw him cry like that.”

Krolia blinked back tears and heaved a shuddered sigh. Keith was fine physically and emotionally, but Lotor knew all too well the pain of associations . . . _fear at seeing a dog on a lead, as he remembered the chain . . . claustrophobia when in the basement, as he relived his captivity . . . a knee-jerk movement when a baby cried, as he automatically strove to aid Throk_. . . Krolia clapped a hand on his shoulder. A gentle squeeze indicated that she was far from angry with him, while a warm smile brought lines to her eyes, and she whispered:

“Take care of him, Lotor.”

“I shall,” said Lotor. “I swear.”

He watched as Krolia leaned down toward Keith. A gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead, while she smoothed his hair and headed towards Lotor once more, and – with a low chuckle – she adjusted his long locks and fixed his bed-head, before she headed back toward the front door and made Lotor swear to turn the alarm on after her departure. He followed and smiled politely as she kissed his cheeks, where he waved after her and locked the door.

It took only a few seconds to turn on the alarm, check the locks to both doors and windows, and triple-check the cameras worked, before he headed to the bedroom and gently closed the door with a click of the handle mechanism. He found a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and a pack of paracetamol, which he slid into Keith’s hands and helped him to sit upright, while practically forcing him to take the medicine with some effort. Keith groaned and handed back the items once consumed, so Lotor could put them on the bedside table.

“You did not _have_ to get so drunk, Keith.”

Lotor made to get up, but Keith yanked him back down. He crashed against the mattress on his side of the bed, instinctively clinging to Keith in the process, only for Keith to be rolled on top of him and smother him under his weight. It was a surprisingly intimate position, made all the more intimate as Keith pressed kisses to Lotor’s neck and ran his hands through white locks of hair with low moans. A simple question echoed from plump lips:

“Lotor, did I tell you that I love you?”

“I love you, too, my friend.”

“No, I _really_ love you,” murmured Keith. “I want you.”

A kiss was pressed to soft skin. Lotor sighed with the sudden sensation, as he relished in the rough and chapped lips that ran over him, and – with the parted lips – Keith slid inside his tongue and explored Lotor’s mouth in earnest. There as a faint taste of alcohol, while the arousal built with great speed, and Lotor suddenly cursed his lack of experience, as he instinctively bucked upward and moaned into the kiss with intense desire.

There was no reaction from Keith. Lotor mewled and moaned, as he tried to reciprocate the kiss in earnest, but Keith’s tongue fell limp and his body was like a dead weight, and – when he snored a deep and low snore – Lotor felt a stab of frustration. It was an insult unlike any other, but he also could not blame someone so deep into intoxication. He rolled Keith onto his back and brought the covers up to his chin, while a small line of drool felt down his cheek and onto the pillow. Lotor held back laughter, as he said in a warm voice:

“Okay, I think it is time you went to sleep.”

“No.” Keith muttered: “Don’t wanna!”

“I will be by your side.”

Lotor slid under the covers in turn, as he wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist, and – pulling him flush against him – he buried his face into the crook of his neck, where he breathed deep the familiar scent of cologne with a smile. Keith opened one eyes and half-smiled, as he brought a hand to his side to clutch at Lotor’s. They entwined their fingers. It was good to have a warm body against him, especially when Keith whispered again:

“I love you, Lotor.”

* * *

“My head is killing me.”

Keith slumped towards the kitchenette counter. The aroma of coffee was heavy and thick in the air, while the plate of still steaming eggs and bacon looked delicious, and yet – as he thought about breakfast – a terrible wave of nausea overcame him, enough that he slid the plate away with a loud groan and swallowed back the bile. Lotor simply laughed and joked: _‘it is good that the plate was intended for me’_. Keith tried to mutter out an apology, but his tongue was fuzzy and his breath tasted bad. He rubbed out the sleep from his eyes.

It was a cold morning, especially when he realised he was only in his boxers. There were creases on his arms, as if he slept with a shirt or some other layers, but he failed to remember when they were removed. He collapsed onto the kitchen stool, while Lotor elegantly ate his breakfast with perfect table etiquette, and ran a hand through his messy hair. A loud yawn followed, as he cricked his neck and scratched at his cheeks. Keith murmured:

“How much did I drink?”

Lotor held back a laugh, but it caused him to choke on his egg. It would have made Keith laugh in turn, except every sound was like someone pounded inside his skull with a hammer, and he groaned and clutched at his head with both hands, while he dropped his forehead to the table. He groaned again when he realised that he was touching something like ketchup, which was starting to warm on his skin, and he reluctantly took the tissue handed to him with a lazy grab, before mumbling incoherent complaints. Lotor asked in a warm voice:

“Do you really not remember?”

“I remember going out for drinks with my mom,” said Keith. “Your pops wanted to throw me a party, but I wanted something low-key and we were going to go that restaurant this weekend, so I was free and my mom wanted to celebrate with me . . . I bought the first round, because I got to show off my drivers’ license with my birth-date on, and then . . . yeah . . .”

“Your mom text to say you were downing shots,” teased Lotor.

“I was? There was beer at first . . . wine . . . we popped some champagne at one point, once some guy she knew realised it was a good occasion . . . I remember crying . . . I didn’t want to celebrate without my best friend. I – ah – missed you, Lotor.”

Keith blushed a deep shade of red. He lifted his head to look across the table to Lotor, who slowed down his consumption of breakfast with barely noticeable chews of food, and he looked so handsome even half-dressed with hair unprepared for the day ahead. Keith focussed his gaze on plump lips, as he wondered what those same lips would taste like and whether Lotor would dream of the same shared future, but his thoughts were cut short when Lotor let out a low hum and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Lotor asked:

“Did you mean what you said?”

A momentary panic coursed through Keith. He swallowed hard, as he screwed shut his eyes and prayed their relationship wasn’t irrevocably ruined by any hasty confessions, and he listened as his heart pounded in his ears like a quick drumbeat. Keith opened his eyes and took in the sight of a nervous Lotor, who fidgeted from cheek to cheek on his seat, before he locked eyes with a hopeful expression toward Keith who choked out:

“What did I say?”

“You said that you loved me,” whispered Lotor.

Keith blinked and sat straight. He struggled to form words, as he opened and closed his mouth, but – when he looked to Lotor – he saw a face filled with hope that was immediately dashed when no immediate acknowledgement came forward, which was enough for his heart to break and a small squeak to escape his lips in an embarrassing manner. Keith clasped his hands over his mouth, as he blushed all the more and Lotor let loose a low chuckle, and suddenly they were sharing in a warm silence, as Keith shrugged and scratched his head.

“I meant every word,” said Keith.

“Why did you not tell me when sober?”

“Look at me, Lotor.” Tears formed in his eyes. “I can’t carry you any children. You’re a _prince_ , but I might not be able to give you an heir! I always wanted a family, especially because my dad abandoned me and my mom was absent, and then my life was turned upside-down with Shiro and giving birth, but . . . what if I’m too broken to be fixed, Lotor?”

“You are never too broken. My mother once told me about an art called _kintsugi_ ; it is where the cracks are celebrated, each creating an intricate pattern and a map of the object’s history, and where one never loses what once brought such joy. You can repurpose objects. You can recycle objects. The thing to remember is you are _not_ an object! I always _loathed_ being compared to things, because the truth is that you _can not_ break a person. You are _you_.”

“Am I enough for you, though? I can’t get pregnant.”

“No, but I can conceive a child.” Lotor shrugged. “We can also adopt; I forged a strong bond with Throk and I know I could love a child borne from another as if they were my own, and I would rather give home to one in need than to bring one needlessly into life. I would also be happy with no children, so long as I was allowed to be happy with you, my love.”

“What about romance, though?” Keith asked. “I only had a series of one-night stands at college, and I was passed about from guy to guy before Shiro ‘claimed’ me, and what about if I don’t know how to react in a relationship? What if I make mistakes? What if I –?”

“Keith, may I be honest with you?”

Lotor came around the table and sat beside Keith. He took Keith’s hand with a gentle hold, before running his thumb along the soft skin, and – as his heart raced – Keith could only let out a shuddered exhale of breath and lick at his lips, before he entwined their fingers and gripped tight onto Lotor’s hand for emotional support. Lotor smiled and leaned close, enough that Keith feared his heart might stop beneath the increasing emotion, and whispered:

“I believe this is _already_ a relationship.”

A chaste kiss was pressed to Keith’s cheek. It lingered with a warm and soft touch, while Keith’s heart skipped a beat and he choked on the air with a high-pitched cry, and – turning to face Lotor – he burst out into laughter and tears, as he through his arms around Lotor and pulled him impossibly close until they were flush against one another. Keith wept in joy, while Lotor rubbed circles on his back, and Keith could only press their foreheads together and run his hands through long locks of hair with sniffs and smiles, as he confessed:

“I did think this was like those perfect romances on television.”

“I was reminded of my parents and your parents.”

“Still, sex changes things,” continued Keith. “I know we don’t _have_ to have sex, but even just saying ‘this is romantic’ comes with expectations from people and expectations from each other and plans for the future . . . it’s a lot of pressure, you know?”

“Let us take things slow, then. No sex. No expectations.”

“I – I would like that. I love you so much and I don’t want to lose this.”

Lotor slowly stood and extricated himself from the embrace. He pressed another lingering kiss to Keith’s forehead, before pausing with a smile and a hum, and he gently took Keith’s cup and his plates to take them over to the wink, while Keith jumped to his feet and ran after him with a wide smile. Lotor only laughed as Keith held him by his waist, while burying his face into the crook of Lotor’s neck, and he enjoyed the scent of expensive cologne and fancy soaps. Lotor reached behind to stroke at his cheek, while he hummed in contentment.

“You have a strange expression,” said Lotor.

“Hey, we’re not dating yet,” teased Keith. “I’m just planning on when and where I ask you out on a real date, as I want it to be as romantic as possible! I want to prove to myself I can do this right, and . . . you deserve the best, Lotor. I love you.”

“I love you, too, but I already have the best.”

Lotor turned and kissed at his lips.

“I have _you_ ,” said Lotor.

* * *

“Ooh, guess who got a present?”

Ezor jumped on the heels of her feet. The sun shone bright behind her tall frame, as she twirled in circles on the front porch with hummed songs, and – as the light reflected from her pink cheeks – Lotor smiled and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a laugh. There was a beautiful bouquet of roses cradled in her arms, which let out a rich scent that brought a long sigh from Lotor’s lips, as he leaned against the doorway with a smile in turn.

The happiness was infectious, enough that he couldn’t deny Ezor. He nodded into the house, as he adjusted Keith’s shirt that barely fell to his knees, but – combined with his sleep-shorts – it kept his modesty and appeared almost like casual attire than nightwear. Ezor wagged her eyebrows at him with a devilish smirk. Lotor looked down and blushed, before he muttered forth an explanation that the outfit was borrowed and their relationship chaste, but she simply laughed all the more and danced inside as she sang some old show-tune under her breath.

Ezor ran straight into his kitchen. He listened as she fussed around for a vase, with muttered complaints at his organisational skills, while the rich scent of coffee drifted out from Keith’s earlier breakfast and the answer-machine flashed with Zarkon’s many messages, as he constantly panicked any time any call was not immediately answered. Lotor yawned and closed the door behind her, as he scratched at his neck with a roll of his shoulders.

“Ezor, I have no interest in your flings.”

“Hey, don’t be so rude!”

Lotor murmured ‘yeah, yeah’ and scrambled around for his phone. He ignored the pout of his best friend, who filled the vase to the brim with crystal clear water, and deposited the flowers with loud squeals as she arranged them as perfectly as she could manage, while Lotor texted his father that he simply overslept. The television ran a rerun of a lecturer discussing various legal theories, so that the jabber echoed in the background of their lives, and Ezor sighed as she found a spray-bottle and gently sprayed water over the flowers, as she chirped:

“You make me sound like a tramp.”

“Well, as they say on Earth: if the shoe fits,” teased Lotor.

“Yeah, well,” muttered Ezor. “I guess _you_ don’t want _your_ present, then.”

The words weight heavy between them. Lotor dropped his phone once ‘send’ was pressed, even as he clamoured and fumbled for the device as it slipped through his fingers, and – with a loud curse – he ran across the room to the table, where he reached with trembling hands to the petals of the flowers. A warm smile broke over his lips, as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and blurred his vision. Ezor wrapped her arms around his waist. The small intimacy warmed his heart, as he thought to Keith and squeezed at her hands, as he whispered:

“He left these for me?”

“Uh-huh,” chirped Ezor. “There’s a card, too!”

Ezor flipped her hand over and held a card between two fingers, which he took with a long exhale of breath and brought to his lips, and gently pressed a chaste kiss to the scented paper, while a tear ran down his cheek and onto his lips. A terrible part of him remembered the past and the flowers that decorated the bedroom . . . _sweat-soaked sheets, insincere platitudes, fresh scars on lilac flesh_. . . the roses were unlike the breeds from the past, while he prayed the fresh associations of a romantic gesture would undo the cold trauma of his old life.

Lotor gazed down at the fresh ink. It smudged a little under his fingers, so that the heart-shaped on the outside of the card grew a little deformed, and he knew he must have missed Keith by a mere few minutes, perhaps less than that if he passed Ezor on his way to work. He laughed as his heart raced in his chest, and slowly opened the card as Ezor nuzzled against his neck for a better look at the contents. The handwriting was beautiful and read:

_‘Can I take you on a date after you graduate? – K’_

It was hardly romantic, but it was pure perfection. Lotor pressed the card to his heart, as Ezor let out a loud ‘aw’ and slipped away to make breakfast, and Lotor could only sniff as another tear fell and he laughed through so many conflicting emotions. He cast a brief glance to Keith’s bedroom door, only to smile at the sight of messy clothes scattered across the floor and dozens of family photographs lining the walls, and he knew – _without a doubt_ – that this was the man he wanted to spend a lifetime with by his side. Lotor whispered with a smile:

“I think I am in love with Keith.”

* * *

 _‘Surprise!_ ’

Confetti burst everywhere. A stream of ribbons coloured his vision, while rice and glitter rained down from all angles, and music suddenly blared from the lounge to the tune of ‘ _celebrate good times’_ , even as he mentally cursed how much time it would take to clean up once the party was finished. Lotor walked inside with his chin high, as his black gown scraped at the floor and his mortarboard hung awkwardly from his head.

There was no sign of Keith anywhere, even as his eyes darted from corner to corner. A hand clamped down on his shoulder as Zarkon whispered ‘ _I’m proud of you, son’_. . . a hug from his mother, a nudge from Zethrid, a slap on the back from a teacher . . . Lotor struggled to slow his racing heart, as a cool sweat broke over his skin. The card was still pressed inside his inner pocket, with a dried rose locked within its folds, and he bit into his lip with a nervous fear that maybe – _just maybe_ – he might face a rejection even on his graduation.

The seconds seemed to pass into hours, as he forced his way through the crowd, offering only polite greetings and minor small talk, and he finally made his way toward the French doors that overlooked the small veranda and gardens beyond. A group of people spilled out to either smoke or get fresh air, while someone cooked at the barbeque with a beautiful song on their lips, and – just as Lotor felt close to tears – a familiar voice called out:

“Congratulations on your Masters, Lotor!”

Lotor spun around.

Keith stood before him in casual attire, still covered in oils and grease and stains from work, and – just as his mouth opened to utter out an apology – Lotor could contain his emotions no longer . . . _love, trust, lust_. . . he dove toward Keith. Arms wrapped around Keith before he found time to react, so that he stood stock-still and with hands still half-raised and mouth partly open, but Lotor simply laughed through his tears and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

The whole party fell silent. Time stood still. Keith froze for a long few seconds, until Lotor chanced the start of his tongue, and – laughing warm and loud – Keith pulled Lotor flush against him and deepened the kiss in earnest. There was the taste of something sweet and strong, while Keith leaned forward and dominated the kiss with expertise and passion, until Lotor was left breathless and flushed and with swollen lips. Lotor pressed a kiss to Keith’s nose with a blush, then his jaw, and then his ear. He asked in a low voice:

“I believe you promised me a date?”

Ezor let out a loud cheer. Lotor buried his head in embarrassment into the crook of Keith’s neck, while the room and garden erupted into laughter and applause, and he smiled against cool skin when he heard Throk and Ren run past them with water-pistols. Keith laughed against him, as his chest vibrated with every single sound. There were whispers about them being a cute couple, as Zarkon boasted that they would move together to Daibazaal, and Keith could only drag Lotor aside until they stood underneath the cool shade of an old tree.

Lotor struggled to keep his hands away from Keith. The sunlight streamed through the leaves above, so that they cast strange and beautiful shadows over his pale skin, and Throk – with a loud chuckle – stopped before them and squirted them both with water, before he ran off when Keith mock-roared at him with a pulled face. Lotor laughed and warmly embraced Keith, as Keith held him back and nuzzled against him with a feigned complaint:

“We’re in the middle of your surprise party!”

“I waited four years for this moment.”

“So you can’t wait one more hour, is that it?” Keith pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I actually did make reservations at that restaurant you love so much, even borrowed a suit from your pops so I don’t look like a total grease-monkey . . . if you can wait just a few hours, I’ll be happy to wait by your side until its time for some alone-time.”

A bottle of champagne was popped from inside. There followed a splash of liquid on tiles, as Zarkon laughed loud and deep and glasses were clinked together, and soon someone was drifting by their side with a tray, almost like a shadow in their peripheral vision. Lotor pulled away to see Honerva with a warm smile, as she offered them a glass each, and – finally legal to drink – Keith took a glass with a murmured ‘thank you’, while Lotor took the other and nodded to her with tears of happiness brimming in his eyes. Honerva gave a low laugh.

“We have toasted to your success, Lotor,” said Honerva. “Let me give you two a moment alone, as I distract your father for a while, and enjoy your moment . . . toast to something that makes you happy . . . let this be an eternal moment of joy between you.”

Honerva pulled back with a low bow, while waving at Throk and signalling the children towards the barbeque where Krolia and Shay welcomed them with plates brimming with food, and Lotor felt something in his chest tighten, as he longed for the day they would have a family to call their own. He pressed a hand to his stomach, as he drew in a staggered breath, and – raising his glass high – he smiled and locked eyes with Keith, who smiled back and raised his glass in turn. It was as if the world was theirs alone, as Lotor swore to him:

“I would have you by my side forever.”

The glasses tapped together with a loud clink. A brief pause fell between them, as Keith brought the rim of the glass to his lips with a nervous smile, and the intimacy was so great and warm – with just a glance and shared breath – that Lotor could barely hold back his need to hold Keith against him. They downed their glasses, before each man fiddled with the long stem, and cast their gazes low with nervous smiles and gentle laughter.

Lotor finally found the courage to speak, but – before a single syllable could be uttered – Keith pressed a kiss to his lips and Lotor sank into his embrace, with hands stroking long lines up to broad shoulders and gripping with an intense strength. They pressed against one another. Keith was so warm to the touch and so firm with his muscles, like a constant reminder of life and strength, and Lotor felt truly safe locked in his arms and protected by his presence. Keith pulled back with a desperate gasp of breath and promised back:

“I’ll never leave you, my love . . .”


End file.
